I run every night. I don’t enjoy it, but I don’t want to be fat because I like cute clothes and it’s hard to find cute clothes in fat people sizes. Simple as that. I do like junk food. Especially sweets and chips and…well, junk food. But cake and ice cream and chocolate is high on my list of happy making necessities. And so. Running. Because dieting is absolutely out of the question.
Oddly enough, I can seem to have a steady running routine and not lose any weight. When I stop I gain weight, but I never seem to lose any. This is a quirk of my body that irritates me greatly, but it does not seem to care about the impact it has on my overall emotional well being. Which is probably also why it hates milk and orange juice. The bitch.
Anyway, I have been running now for about a year and half. I usually do about four and half kilometers, or a couple miles. The running part is actually only one mile plus maybe another half depending on my mood, and the rest is power walking. Followed by weights when I get back to my apartment. But I never stray too far away from my apartment, mostly because I like to be within easy returning distance should I decide I’m really not in the mood for exercise after all. It happens.
I frequently see other people out and about, some doing their own exercise, some walking their dogs, some just getting home from work or the store. I never have any trouble with them, we nod our heads at each other and offer a polite こんばんは (good evening) and go on our way, barely having paused.
So why then, lately, do people feel the need to interrupt my run to talk to me? Twice now strange Japanese men have stopped me and asked me if I’m free. Do I look free? I’m sweating, because I sweat—a lot. Really, I think my pores are connected to the oceans with how much I can sweat sometimes, it’s disgusting—and I’m redfaced, and my running clothes are usually puffy. It’s not sexy. Seriously. And I’m obviously in the middle of my exercise. They don’t go to the gym and stand in front of people on the treadmill and demand their attention, do they? No. Because it’s rude. Oh but wait, that’s right, I’m not Japanese, so to do it to me isn’t rude.
But that’s different story entirely.
No, I want to talk about last night. I went running, as I usually do, and as sometimes happens I drew attention to myself, simply by the fact that I am quite obviously not Japanese and that I run at night because I have a deep aversion to daylight. Mostly the sun’s rays. I’ve attracted strange men before, one guy on bike followed me for half a block until I had to stop at a “Don’t walk” sign before he asked me if I could play with him. Here play can be a lot of things. I took it to mean all of them and pretended I didn’t speak Japanese. Last night though, the guy was an older gentleman and had a car.
He pulled alongside the road I was on and waited for me to catch up at the intersection. I had no idea what he was doing, but I figured he was probably staring at me since that’s what Japanese men in cars do. I nodded my head politely in a sort of non bow and went around his car, on my merry way. He followed me for half a block and then pulled over and called out to me. I figured I’d better just answer him so that he didn’t follow me to the next leg of my run, which would go through a dimly lit wooded area with probably no witnesses should he try to kill me. Though in that case it would have been me with the upper hand, since I would have a better shot at getting away with killing him. Still. I figured better to not risk it.
I stop and say hi, and he asks me to talk to him for a while. He wants me to get in his car. Like that’s gonna happen. Ever. Even in the third safest country in the world I am not that completely stupid. He seemed to be offended by this, but I was adamant. He then wanted to know my phone number and address and where I was going, to which I replied of course, though I totally lied. Then he gave me his number and said I should call him so he could meet me at a restaurant and give me a present.
I won’t even touch on the present part.
I told him I would give his number to the friend I live near, since I don’t have a phone (lie) and they my friend would call him (lie) as soon as he got the chance. I seriously doubt David—my friend—will call. Not that I care. My job was to give him the number. I did my job. I did not get in the car with a strange man—who didn’t even have candy! What the hell kind of stranger doesn’t even bring candy!?—and I managed to escape unscathed. Though he screwed to hell my usual routine, which pissed me off because it’s hard as hell to keep myself on track normally, I don’t need lonely old businessmen throwing me off my stride too.
And that was my adventure. It was lame. I remain annoyed.
Japan is a very friendly country. It really is. It’s full of friendly, polite people. Sometimes more polite than friendly, and sometimes more friendly than polite. It also has quite a few creepy-assed stalker freaks. And I seem to have the unfortunate habit of attracting all of them.
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