Joggers. The Bobo Kind.

You know what I don't understand? People who go out jogging on the busiest streets in the city.

I'm out there, already a bit grumpy for having to weave my way through the mess of people, strollers, groups of teens with interlinked arms, dogs...and then you have this jogger, the one wearing the short shorts and the tight white t-shirt with bulging arm muscles showing through and a dainty little bounce in his step. Coming straight for me, I can see that the crowds are parting for him, making room for this person who seems to be on a roll with his jogging time as he glances at his watch every 5 seconds or so. It looks like he's hard at work, music pumping in his ears, sweat coming off of his face, white t-shirt has a translucent streak between his man boobs, sorry, pecks, and nobody wants to get in his way.

Well, I can spot these jogger types from miles away, and let me tell you, I dig my heels in and i stand my ground. I have about three shopping bags with me, a purse that weighs the same as a baby, and I'm on a mission to buy that hat I saw at that store about a week back. I'm walking with a purpose and I will not stray from my path for some goofy dude that thinks he's awesome.

The stare down begins, he can see me seeing him, and then he glances at his watch to make sure he's still making good time. He gets closer and closer, and the sidewalk is so narrow, there's no way his bulging muscles and my bulging shopping bags can both share this space. I battle onwards and lean forward into my walk as I put my focused face on. That jogger knows I won't be moving out of his way. A few feet away from him, I'm definitely at the point of no return and I can't just step off the sidewalk and into the road to let him pass by as this may cause a sweaty collision of muscle and brand new Urban Outfitter shoes. With a huge sigh and a screw-you look, he bounces off the sidewalk, light as a fairy on his feet, and jogs passed me. A few steps later, he's back on track, parting the crowds and glancing at his watch, oh, and grabbing the hem of his shirt and stretching it upwards passed his nipples to dab away the sweat pool forming on his face. Gross.

I won't let those cocky-type joggers, the one's that don't even really fit the profile of a jogger but instead look like bench pressers, the one's that jog through the most crowded streets in Toronto on a Saturday afternoon just to be seen...I won't let them get away with forcing me off the sidewalk. One point for me bobo muscle man jogger, and zero for you.