THE Globe and Mail ran an article last spring listing runners' pet peeves when they return to the trails after a long, cold winter.
Along with the predictable whingeing about surprise dog turds, bicyclists who fail to use their warning bells and oblivious headphone-rapt walkers, one woman gave herself away as a capital "B" Bossy Boots.
"Cath" wrote that the thing that bothered her most was "New runners with terrible form: flailing arms, hunched shoulders, limp hands, a stride that will clearly lead to knee injury within weeks."
I instantly had to ask myself, "How is any of that Cath's concern? Do their flailing arms mean she'll get an eye taken out? Will the new runner's hunched shoulders cause Cath's back to seize up? Will a stranger's knee woes add costs to Cath's sports medicine tab?"
Obviously not. Cath is just a know-it-all. And I'll bet you an extinct Canadian penny to three Timmy Ho crullers that when she sees other people running "incorrectly," she can't rest until she tells these strangers exactly what they're doing wrong.
I know plenty about the Caths of this world, because they will not leave me alone. I'm a tall woman with an assertive walk, not a tiny, cringing milquetoast, yet people who don't know me from Adam Sandler are constantly giving me instructions.
A few months ago, for example, I found myself walking my puppy several times a day. I work by myself at home, and, like my beast, I need all the social interaction I can get. Unlike her, however, I'm not prepared to grovel in the mud to get it. Yet every time I took my rowdy pup out on-leash, one person in particular would give me advice, much of it uninformed. These gems of wisdom included the remark "That dog needs a lot of exercise."
Hell's bells, I'm on the other end of this leash daily - you can rest assured that I'm aware of it. And if you weren't a complete stranger, you'd know that this is my sixth dog, and they've all lived to a ripe, happy old age.
"She gets a lot of exercise," I retorted, my fur ruffled. "We spent two hours yesterday on the trail down the hill."
Not good enough. "You really have to watch it on that trail," said this selfappointed expert. "Dogs often get into fights there."
People probably get into fights there, too, since on one creek-side walk another interloper told me that I - quite clearly a non-athlete - should take up running 10 kilometres daily because it would be good for my dog.
Thanks, whoever you are, and maybe you should take up wearing a helmet to protect yourself from the frying pan I'll tote along on my next walk to give your noggin a right good conk.
Does anyone actually welcome this sort of ongoing commentary about what they are doing "wrong" from random passersby? Sometimes they'll even comment before you've erred.
I occasionally cut through an alley en route to the forest. Last time I did, a woman was standing on the edge of her adjacent property, arms crossed over her chest disapprovingly, watching.
"I hope you pick up after your dog," she said in a highly suspicious tone.
"Of course," I responded, because I do.
Perhaps my best defence is a good offence. I don't, for example, correct strangers' grammar errors in their presence - though I'd love to have that kind of nerve because it would give me a full-time job. But apparently I need to rethink my polite approach, rebuking people everywhere before they start in on me.
I'll start small, in the checkout line at my local supermarket. Casting an eye over the groceries the adult in front is about to purchase, I'll quickly weigh in. "I don't see any Omega-3s in that cart. So much for your brain health. No wonder you're reading The National Enquirer."
Next, I'll step behind the counter to rectify the frothing technique of my neighbourhood barista, accidentally administering a few first-degree burns in the process. After all, there's no law that says authoritarian types have to know what they're talking about - in fact, they usually don't. That's the thrill of it, I suppose; it's do-it-yourself expertise. All bossiness requires is bravado.
So I'll pop over to the YVR air traffic centre. Standing at a controller's shoulder, I'll offer random tips on how to guide in the jets.
"Ah, those people flying in from the United Arab Emirates must have had a long flight. Let them nip in past the plane from Taiwan - give me the computer mouse, I'll just map the path out for you. Oops! Damn bifocals. . . ."
