I was sweating. A lot. Pools of sweat were streaming down the small of my back, and I was damn uncomfortable. The temperature was far too warm on Sunday to be strolling through an outdoor art fair, but duty called.
As I ducked in and out of display tents, which were whoring out shade, I heard a man call my name.
I swerved, turned around. Saw nothing.
"Are you working?" he yelled.
I turned the opposite direction, and saw an aging man dressed in a black polo shirt, dress pants and fancy shoes. He was waving. And smiling. He looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him...
"I don't recognize you with clothes on!" He continued to smile and wave.
Did he say, what? In my mind, I replayed every drunken college night, fishing for a memory that included a middle-aged man and myself, in the buff.
Nope. Don't recall.
I nearly spit on myself as I tried to remember who this man was, and why - WHY - he's seen me sans clothes. I continued to nod and smile through mild embarrassment and confusion, and extended my hand for a handshake. He had a good grip. He's so familiar. Who is this man? I found it hard to make eye contact.
"So where'd you run this weekend?" he asked, still shaking my hand.
And then I got it. He's a local runner, part of the running club I belong to. A man I'd run with a few times on the weekends in preparation for my first half marathon. And - ha, ha - by "no clothes" he meant actual clothes, not the drenched rags I wear for a good, long run.
I was certainly relieved. And glad I didn't have to explain that one.