Looking down from Olympus on a world of doubt and fear

I'm not sure if it's WDW specifically or just being on vacation, but generally people are friendlier down there. There's a surprising amount of patience that comes along with an overcrowded resort full of screaming kids and annoyed parents. Maybe because we're all in it together. I don't know. I do know that I find myself striking up conversations with total strangers from time to time, which is something I would NEVER do in the real world. Yes, I hate strangers just that much. But at WDW if there's a fellow wearing interesting apparel, usually plaid, I've been known to comment on his sartorial choices.

Being a runner, I have this ability to recognize what could best be described as "running clothes". It's a pretty useless ability I will admit, but we can't all cure cancer, can we? So when I see a gent wearing some high-tech, moisture-wicking, shiny clothing along with running shoes standing by himself doing nothing much, I thinks to myself, "Self, there's a runner. Why not go over and talk to him because that's what runners do to fellow runners. Trade secrets, compare ipod playlists, swap bread recipes. "

Almost immediately I was reminded of why I generally avoid talking to people. Especially strangers.

Me: "You must be a runner."

He: "Used to be, but mainly cycling. Did 100K. EVERY ride." (Emphasis his)

Fearing I was too stupid to know the basics of the metric system and recognize this was a ride of some significance, he quickly added, "That's 60 miles you know."

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

Hey pal, I watch the Tour de France. Got a brother with a degree from a fancy institute of technology to boot. I know all about the metric system. Suddenly this didn't seem like a great idea.

He: "Look at my calves. There huge!"

Yes, he actually requested a complete stranger, another male no less, look at his huge calves and flexed accordingly. My loins remaind unstirred. Though they were indeed "huge" and were no doubt intended to let me know I was in the presence of a deity just down from Olympus, I was able to contain myself enthusiasm. Just. I did bow, but only slightly.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go. You got me beat."

So for the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I find myself comparing calf muscles with a complete stranger at Disney World. I'm generally not into such blatant displays of homoeroticism, but sometimes one gets caught up in the moment. Particularly when making idle chatter in an ice cream line. And when fortune smiles like that, I suppose an ice cream just has to wait.

He: "Yeah, my father in law's was a runner but his knees gave out and he's barely 60. Knew as much as I was doing, I'd be next. So I got me a $2000 treadmill."

I was in awe of his continued awesomeness and started to offer that I run outside for free. But I figured this was another of his one-upmanships so I needed to reestablish my dominance. I considered telling him I had a $50 ipod shuffle. However, I knew I was all but defeated and resistance was futile. So I stayed with the script.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

For the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I actually hoped that Buster would run up screaming, maybe even bleeding (but not seriously, of course) for me to come quick.

He: "It's really awesome. But I don't get on it that much."

I can't really blame him. That would take away valuable time from him marvelling at his "huge" calves. There's only so many hours in a day and when a large chunk is already spent flexing and massaging baby oil on them yams, well, priorities. Speaking of which, bowing my head because I knew that I'd been beat, I mustered up the courage to split. I figured that if I'd been invited to feel up a dude, learned about his $2000 treadmill and, in general, how incredible he was in the span of about 2 minutes, there was no where to go but down. Unless, he was going to tell about the time he turned that water into wine or walked on water. I decided these were stories I'd just have to miss.

Me: "Hmph. Guess I need to go. See you later."

He: All right. Take 'er easy."

It's a toss-up between who gave the dumber final remark. I had no plans to see him again. We certainly weren't going to hit up at Dumbo for a couples ride. And unless I have an incredible string of bad luck that finds me looking for $2000 treadmills in New Jersey, I can't imagine ever running into him again.

But "take 'er easy"?!?! Is this 1975? Are we comparing calves in a Chevy van with Frank Frazetta artwork on the side and a bumper sticker that says Gas, Grass or Ass: No one rides for free? Somehow this all seemed fitting for reasons I still can't even understand. Perhaps this is the way people still talk, and I'm just really, really not with it. And I guess I should give him credit for not calling me "bro" or even worse, "brah." Regardless, I made a vow then and there to never speak to a stranger ever again. Probably won't even speak to most people I know unless I'm bleeding or they're on fire. I'm sure people will understand. I apologize in advance but my fragile psyche can't take many more instances of friendliness being met with an impromptu Mr. Universe contest. Keep on truckin'.