The other day I set off on a nice steady 10k around Blueberry Hills. The weather was mild and the run uneventful.
Uneventful, that is, until I happened to look down at what I was wearing. Green jacket with black panelling, black tights with blue panelling, green/blue/black running shoes. The exact shades were subtly different, but it was close enough to give the overall impression that I’d gone to a lot of effort to put together a matching outfit.
When I’d thrown on whatever crumpled clothes had been nearest the top of the pile just a few minutes earlier, picking a matching ensemble was as high on my list of priorities as contracting violent dysentery and getting my face tattooed with the phrase “Dunfermline’s third cleanest prostitute”. But, intentional or not, my green/blue/black get-up made me look very much like someone sponsored by an exciting new brand of chewing gum that was as minty as it was mysterious. If anyone from Wrigleys is reading this, you could call it “StealthMint” and get an actual ninja to do the voiceover on the ad.
Anyway, by the time I came into the last mile, I’d become more and more conscious of the fact that the final stretch would take me through a busy residential area. Nobody had pointed and jeered on the way out, but now that I’d noticed that I looked as cringeworthy as a dad turning up to school sports day in compression gear and track spikes, it somehow meant that the veil was lifted and now everyone else would notice too. Speaking of which, I did consider mitigating my fashion faux pas by taking off the green jacket. However, I’d opted for a black compression top which was so skintight you could count the individual hairs on my chest*, and the people of my town just aren’t ready for the sight of a vaguely-mobile S&M bouncy castle.
So I steeled myself and headed for home, waiting for the mockers to descend on me. Knowing my luck, they’d probably just spent the morning making placards and composing a satirical song.
They didn’t, and they hadn’t, but as I glimpsed my reflection in a bus stop, I thought to myself:
“My name is Captain Co-ordinated. And I am a dick”
* Seven, since you’re asking.