I joined the running club for breakfast this morning and couldn't help noticing that a new woman had joined us. Her name was was Irina and it didn't take me long to figure out that she was Russian. She had already been warned about me. I guess there is an urban legend about how I chased off one gal by asking her if she was going to pick up her bosses laundry. She was an executive administrative assistant.
"You son of a bitch," she said as she walked out on the arm of her boyfriend, James Dean. No, not that James Dean. I haven't seen her or Dean since.
Can't people take a joke?
That gal was sort of plump and I think she really didn't like running that much anyway.
Irina wasn't phased at all by my reputation. She is looking for a job and I gave her my card. Russian girls are tough.
I asked her send me her resume. Seems that she is 34 and going through a divorce. Dimitri was at the breakfast table too but made it plain to all of us that the club was sacred and a relationship with a member would make is awkward. Sounds like me when I was much younger and single and avoided asking out Marilyn, a very cute little blond, for much the same unenlightened reason. But that was back 30 years ago.
Besides if Dimitri wants to get married he can always join one of those Russian Bride sites. Their seems to be an infinite supply of Russian women who want to marry older American men so they can immigrate to the USA, then drop the guy, go clubbing and marry a much younger man.
All Russian women these days seem to be blond even if they are not.
I ran an easy 62 minutes this afternoon shortly after a series of rain clouds swept through the Bay Area wetting down the streets. The air felt clean and fresh.