Sleepy 5 over the Queensboro Bridge this morning (49:05). Out the door by 5:30, once again I ran the whole out and back in the dark. Night has put her foot down after a season of magnamity; Night will only now pick up her skirts and leave when she’s good and ready (which is sometime between 6:15 and 6:30 AM).
On my westbound crossing of the bridge, I spotted two other female runners coming towards me, cresting the hill. They were like golden apparitions amidst the grime. Somehow, beneath the security lamps they managed to look sun-kissed. They had identical hair–long, honey locks, tied up in a swinging ponytail, with stray bits flicking rhythmically back from the face in the breeze their motion created. It was like a Breck commercial, the way that hair swooped and swayed. One of them had a lock of it stuck to her glistening lip–was she wearing LIP GLOSS?! Then there were the matchy-matchy outfits—shiny gray capri tights, with those fitted tank tops (you know, the ones with the built-in support) with piping that coordinated to the tights. One was pink and the other white. These women were tall with long legs; they ran without chatter; they looked confused. I’d bet $11 they had never run over the 59th Street Bridge before, I’d bet they weren’t used to running without a [male] audience. If we were on a ski slope they’d be snow bunnies; if we were by the ocean they’d be beach bunnies. But we were on the Queensboro Bridge, before dawn, with no witnesses—they were just funny bunnies.
Perhaps I’m being harsh (Who, me? Dismissive?). And certainly, I shouldn’t condemn any woman for getting dolled up. But yet—really? They woke up at 5 AM and gussied up to run through darkness and truck exhaust?
I am just being grouchy, and envious. I wish my legs were impossibly long, like scissors. I wish my hair swished like a horse’s tail instead of puffing up like a serving of cotton candy. I wish my chest could fit in one of those cute tanks with the sewn-in bras. I wish I was hopeful enough to apply lip gloss at a quarter after five in the morning. (It is hope that compelled her to swipe it on, right? Not vanity?)