Open Letter to the Chastain Park Jogging Woman

Good morning,

The PYB can tell that you run alot. She means ALOT. You are so tan and totally cut, but also freakishly skinny, like a 12 year old boy. She's sure your running partner has a hard time keeping up with you.

Oh, you don't remember the PYB? 

She was one of the two people in the blue Scion who was waiting for you to cross the street so that they could take a left hand turn. You see, you were jogging up the hill in your black sports bra and cropped lycra jogging pants that outlined your impossibly tiny, but muscular legs, and we stopped so that you could cross the street and not have to stop your run. But, you DID stop. In the middle of the road. And stretched like a sleek black cat with your arms up above your head and then dropped your torso with your hands down to your shoes and turned around so that your ass was facing the car. The driver's side of the car. Where the Hunky Husband was sitting and waiting to make the turn. Yes, Ms. Chastain Park Jogging Woman, we noticed. Especially as the pink rubberbandish waist strap of your neon pink thong popped out of your lycra pants. Nice. Classy. Right there - in the driver's side window. Then, after a count of about 10 seconds you straightened up, did a head roll, looked at the HH and started back the way you came. Really?

The PYB can only hope the sound of laughter followed you down the hill. 

Sincerely,

The PYB.