Come Run with Me to See the Misogyny

For me, it’s exercise. For them, it’s a show.

Photo by Andrew Tanglao on Unsplash

Now in quarantine, we’re getting a lot less socialization than usual. Our favourite hobbies have been trimmed down to a few logistic possibilities to make them work.

For many, like me, the appearance of spring brings with it the joyous experience of slipping on our running shoes and hitting the pavement or jogging trails near our homes.

For others, on the other hand, quarantine has meant the loss of their favourite activity — objectifying women on drinking nights out on the town.

And so, my precious jogging trails have become another gathering space — one for misogynistic men to congregate on the rocks and park benches to admire the fine asses and breasts of women as they jog by, one deplorable step away from holding up scorecards to rank the lady meat sacks and their overall f*ckability.

Why not? That would just be another way to further dehumanize us.

That’s all part of the experience of being a woman, after all.

Now that their bars are closed, they must work with what they’ve got.

Gone are the days of the crowded downtown pubs where they can pass by a woman and graze a hand against her backside, before disappearing into the crowd.

Now that they can’t walk down the sidewalk catcalling women side-by-side or wolf-whistle from across the street as they drunkenly leave a club, they have resort to the next best thing.

Hanging out on benches and rocks by crosswalks leering at women dressed in spandex trying to burn off some steam and get some exercise.

It doesn’t matter that my jogging pants go down to my calves, or that my round-neck shirt is longer in the back to cover up my butt.

Simply because I have an ass and tits, I will be subject to the elbow nudges, the pointing, the nods of ‘approval’ and the suggestive smiles as I pass, on kilometre 3 of my jog.