.hiking solo.

i went for a walk in forest park this morning. i threw myself out of bed at 9 am, fighting the urge to stay under the covers until at least noon. depression doesn't need more pillows; it needs a thermos full of espresso and a walk up a big hill.

i often question my intentions for these solo activities. as i pull my green sports bra over my head, i imagine a kismet meeting on the trails. probably someone scruffy and brooding, clutching a wrinkled paperback book: something classic and revolutionary. or maybe a man with two dogs, both of them big and irresistible. that's how we start talking, because i can't stop myself from lavishing his saint bernard with hugs and baby talk.

"you're not going for a hike to meet somebody." this is my habitual self-scolding. what's the point of spending time by yourself if you're subconsciously motivated by bumping into some cute boy? besides, for those of us who aren't sara jessica parker, meeting someone on a hike is highly unlikely.

i forced myself to wear my ugly shorts – the green shiny soccer shorts handed down by my ex-girlfriend. they must be boys’ shorts, because they hang almost to my knees and i have to roll them up at the top. the whole effect is awkward. combined with white running sneakers and yesterday's sweaty socks, the look is less sexy-hardcore-hiker-girl and more i-haven't-brushed-my-teeth-yet-don't-talk-to-me.

besides being practical, the ugly outfit affirms my independence. it says, hey, i'm not cute and sexy-sporty, i'm fucking exercising and thinking and looking at trees and stuff. it says, i'm about me and not about you. wearing something ugly also obviates the letdown when i see the angsty tattered book guy, reading under a tree, and he doesn't so much as look up at me.

the hike was beautiful, as usual, and amazing solely in its proximity – forest park is a ten minute drive from my house. and on my way back down the trail, this guy who's been slightly ahead of me all the way up, stops and turns around. he's toting a tired little dog – no wonder, junior is thirteen years old – and wearing fluorescent orange gym shorts that make my green ones look like tasteful slacks from j. crew. he's bald, with a prickly chin. and his t-shirt says something about donating organs. i've been staring at it the whole way up the trail.

so this guy turns around and says, "hey, i beat you." i am sweating and tired and have no witty response, so i just laugh – but hard enough that i seem interested. which i am. he asks if i mind if he walks back down the trail with me. i say no, of course not. i ask him what he does, and he gives possibly the best answer i've ever heard to that question: "i'm cut out dead people's eyes so they can be used for tissue donation." wow.

he's from texas (bad. i bit my tongue and refrained from asking if he's a republican.) he's 32 (good). he owns a condo and is buying property out by suavie island (excellent). he likes to travel, ski, hike, do lots of other sporty things. he refers to a gay friend without a hint of homophobia or judgment in his voice (thank god). he wants to meet a nice girl and get engaged and build a house together on his new property (oy, buy me a drink first, will ya?).

all in all, a sweet guy. i am suddenly at an age where job stability and home ownership actually make somebody more attractive. we walk down the trail making pleasant conversation, and i caught myself on more than one occasion laughing because something was funny and not because i felt bad for him.

when we got to the bottom of the trail, he shook my hand and said, "it was really nice to meet you. good luck with whatever you do." and walked the other direction. i was visibly surprised i know i made that face like i do ten minutes into the new york times crossword puzzle: perplexed and kind of pissed off. isn't this the part where he asks for my number?

at home now, sitting at my dining room table, well hydrated and full of breakfast, it makes a little more sense. sometimes i think that dating is a numbers game. if enough guys ask for my number, i'm bound to find one that fits perfectly. but of course it's idiotic to date like you shop for jeans. in twenty minutes of conversing with ocular tissue donation guy, i could already tell that we wouldn't know what to do together on a saturday afternoon. he'd want to go windsurfing and i'd want to go to the library. he is buying a house and wants to get married. i can't stay in the same apartment for more than six months. the jeans don't fit. take them off and move on.

i just want to try on a lot of guys right now. and going into the dressing room with a big fat stack of them is more important to me than coming out with one that actually fits.

and right now, i do prefer to hike alone.