making me mad

This week—in a disappointing (and eye-opening) development—the heckling went from harmless and occasionally comical, to entirely and unnecessarily offensive, altering my overall attitude about running solo in this city—an activity I find slightly less enticing following Monday’s more-maddening-than-amusing mid-run encounter.

“Nice tits.”

My enjoyable afternoon jaunt by the waterfront was sadly disrupted by this uncalled-for and unpleasant comment, hurled my direction by one (obviously immature) twenty-something clown. Most days I’m relatively resilient, remaining fairly unaffected by comments endured as I traipse around town. But this was different somehow, in its blatant impropriety, its sexual suggestiveness, and its foul specificity. I was insulted and uncomfortable, but continued running, with disbelief, disgust, embarrassment, and anger as my companions on my return home.

Although I applaud this asshole for finding my barely-there breasts beneath two T-shirts and a (non-wonder) sports bra, I am frustrated by his need to announce his discovery so openly and inappropriately, if at all. I doubt that “Nice nads,” is ever a comment a man must encounter while crisscrossing his way through the city. I resent that as a woman, I have learned to expect harassment when I’m running. And I resent that it usually happens.