Bringing the leg meat.

There are five main reasons you cannot run outside in India.

1.  It's hot like whoa.
2.  The presence of sidewalks on most roads is inconsistent at best.
3.  The presence of a slew of farm/zoo animals, including, but not limited to, cows, goats, donkeys, boar, and monkeys on most roads is guaranteed.
4.  Indian mosquitoes transmit about as many diseases as Vegas hookers. 
5.  Indians stare like they are getting paid not to blink.

I have to run, because if I don't, I get chubby and I can't sleep, but I have been relegated to the treadmill in the gym in our apartment complex, where the manager plays Indian hip hop music on a volume that can be equated with tornado warning systems in Kansas. 

 The monsoon season here is finally in full swing, which means the weather is much more temperate than when we arrived.  In India, temperate means a heat index of 100 and 70% humidity, but I'll take what I can get.

So today I did it.  I ran outside.  I was confined to the one mile loop around our apartment complex, to avoid Reasons #2 and #3, and I sprayed enough Deep Woods Off on my clothes to kill a baby from about 2 yards away, but I was outside.  And running.  I loved it.

It was impossible to avoid Reason #5.  The cooler weather drew lots of people outside, and they all stared as I jogged past.  My green running shorts didn't help, but I can't run in pants.  It's too much.

And here's the thing about Indian culture: Women can show their mid sections whether they have the abs of a lesbian gym owner or the stomach of a 40 year old mother of four, but show those thighs and calves and you're a whore.  Oh, and Indians don't run unless they are being chased.

So there I was, in all my glory, flaunting my leg meat, blasting Rihanna's "Only Girl (In the World)."  And I felt like the only girl in the world.  Jaws dropped.  Heads turned.  Mothers shielded the faces of their children.

I didn't care.  Well, I did a little, but I pretended not to.

But the worst part happened after I ran.

The lobby, hallways, and elevators in our apartment building aren't air-conditioned, so after a 30 minute run in Hades, I was pretty hot.  My shirt was soaked through and my face was dripping wet.

Let me preface my forthcoming confession with a note: I have never seen my neighbors inside my apartment building, except for in the lobby.  In the entire time I've lived here, the elevator goes straight from the lobby to the 7th floor without stopping, and I've never seen anyone in the hallway outside my apartment.

So the confession: Once I got inside the elevator, I took my shirt off.  Standing around in a sports bra is an India is a huge no-no, but it was sooooo hot.  Now, my cared-for-by-carbs midsection is nothing to look at, and it was bad enough that I was bringing the leg meat, but now my shoulders were on display. In India, shoulders are the epitome of sexiness.

On the fourth floor, the elevator stopped.

I froze.  In slow motion, the doors opened to reveal four Indian men.  As the doors slowly slid back, they looked at me in ever growing horror/delight.  It was like the elevator was a magical peep show portal they didn't even have to pay to open. I don't think they even looked at my legs.  For a moment, my shoulders were the center of the universe.

I've never felt so trashy.

I had to make this end, so, ever so coolly, I stepped forward, said "Hey guys," like an idiotic American, and pressed the "door close" button.

Real cool, Katrina.  Real cool.


* I must credit Tina Fey with the phrases "leg meat" and "abs of a lesbian gym owner." She's too funny.  Read Bossypants!