Of Sweat and Etiquette
Jogging in Miami at noon is a lot like setting yourself on fire. But I'm the masochistic type when it comes to working out, so I went for a run in South Beach the other day – under a burning ball of flames. Five or six blocks from home and I was already covered in sweat and thirsty as a big slobbery dog.
Coming up on Flamingo Park, my throat felt dry, so I spit in the grass. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a Mercedes with tinted windows pull up next to me. The driver rolled down his window and a foreign man with fierce, beady eyes shook a finger at me. "No spit!" he said. "Woman."
Three words and it was enough to set me on fire twice. Was this machismo dick face actually telling me I’m not allowed to spit because I'm a chick? Did he really just go out of his way to lecture me on outdoor workout gender etiquette?
Apparently, I’d sprinted right into the 1950s.
I am not proud of the events that followed. After raising a tall middle finger to the gentleman, I sucked up the largest loogie possible and aimed it towards his car. But, alas, fancy cars are faster than sweaty girls and it landed closer to my feet than his ride.
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