I'm a foreigner. I get starred at occasionally. It's to be expected, accepted and ignored.
I'm also a runner. A runner who wears tight leggings that I'm sure most think aren't really pants though the price tag on them and the thickness of the material clearly establishes they're training pants. Sooooo I get starred at occasionally and it too is to be expected, accepted and ignored.
Today I decided to venture away from my old black running leggings and wear a pair of super bright ones -- fluorescent coral. I knew the colour of my leggings would get stares and double takes but I just thought it'd be over the in-your-face colour of them. I was wrong. You see, what happens when you wear leggings, a tight pair of pants that cling to your legs like paint on the wall, is you sweat and the leggings soak it up. Black leggings are forgiving with the sweat, no one is the wiser, but lighter colour leggings tell all. Today's leggings told all to everyone I passed by and though I'm not sure of what exactly they "told" they clearly spoke of how I was kicking my own butt. I didn't notice it, why all the stares, until I reached the end of my run route and looked down at my legs.
The crotch ring of sweat was about half way down my thigh and the sweat engulfing the back of my legs, right were my tush and legs merge, was quite big and quite noticeable. At first glance I was embarrassed and instantly considered whether or not I should take the back streets back to Hulk's. It was then that I ran into four construction men sitting on the side curb, having what I assumed by their clothes and their dirty skin was a morning work break. They all so obviously eyed me from head to toe and then their eyes went back down, to my sweaty crotch, and they laughed. Great, I thought. I could have and would have been embarrassed if it weren't for the fact that I had just rocked my run. I was all happy-go-lucky and feeling good because I had scored my goal pacing despite the rough start to my run. So, when I passed by them and heard their comments, I stopped. I stopped, took a step back and blurted out in Korean "It's called sweat. It's what happens when you exercise. You need to try it."
OK, so perhaps my little morning blurb to the four construction dudes was rather immature and uncalled for but I wasn't about to let some crotch-starring guys rain on my parade. My sweat lines on clothing are like that of a tiger's stripes, in my mind. I wear them with pride and I'm not about to let anyone take that from me, especially when it's too early in the morning for me to even be up. So go ahead and check out my sweat lines, boys, I thought to myself. Check out how nasty sweaty my butt is but you'll notice how it's not saggy and droopy like others because I kick it at training. And my legs, they're sweaty too, but they also kick mad butt and are strong like kangaroo legs. And how about you all take a whiff of me too. I smell like roses -- dead roses right now. It's called training hard. I train hard and I sweat as much as I train.
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