I got cat-called about six miles into a nine-mile run yesterday. A quick whistle, followed by an “Ooh, baby!” slipped out of the window of a passing car as I plodded down Coolidge.

Surely, the outburst must have come from a sarcastic place. When it’s 80 degrees, I run with my shirt off — baring my pale, skinny, sweaty glory to the world. I doubt I’m impressing anyone. But, if it was earnest … um, thanks.