I am not a runner. And yet somehow, on a recent rainy Saturday morning, I found myself literally chasing men around the marshy parkland in my East London neighborhood.
They were all much faster than me, and so I gave up.
I sat down on the first bench I stumbled upon and thought about what a great story it would be if a very lovely, witty, and attractive Londoner just so happened to be running very late that morning. Late enough that I was in the way of his path.
“You alright?” I imagined he would say. This is a standard British greeting and should not be confused with a genuine question, as it translates to a passing “Hello!” But as an American transplant, I would upcycle the acknowledgement of my existence into a kind concern about my wellbeing, and I would run with it—all the way to a nearby café, where we could have a cup of tea sheltered from the downpour. Never again would I be forced to even think about running in the rain, except for when we would laugh about this story at our wedding.
Alas, Prince Charming did not show. He and all his fellow could-be suitors were already two miles ahead of me by…
