This area is trying desperately to be the new chi-chi urban district in my City of Roses. It was bankrolled during the height of the real-estate bubble, and a whole bunch of chumps figured how smart they were by throwing up some huge condos in this badly-accessed former industrial dumping site.
It even has a ski lift - one of those ginormous gondolas you see taking loads of perky ski-bunnies in Sixties spandex tights up to the Piz von Spitz in the old James Bond movies - that runs up to the Oregon Health Sciences University on what is universally known around here as "Pill Hill".
It's been pretty rainy the last week or so, but this afternoon the sun came blazing out which meant that all the Portlanders did, too.
One thing I noticed is that amid the pale skin and rip-stop poplin that are part of the Portland woman's special charm there were some truly electric toenails.
Fingernails? Not so much; the usual tame shades from pale pink to dark crimson. But the toes, suddenly free from their dark winter prisons, didn't just flower...they buzzed! Electric blue, Stearman orange (like ten little cropdusters...), highlighter yellow, and even more exotic varieties with little flowers, leaves, stars...
What's the deal, gals? Is this some sort of secret winter pick-me-up? Are these vivid toes your way of fighting off the rainy-day blues? Do you combat Portland's everlasting rains by shucking your shoes and socks to bask in the light of those luminescent polished toenails?
I dunno. They ARE pretty. And sunny and bright. I enjoyed the newly-freed colors passing by in their tevas and flip-flops, glinting and gleaming in the frolicsome sun.
I took the picture below because it was such a perfect illustration of the day.
The woman is probably either a doctor or a lawyer - this IS a wealthy part of town and the big hospital is nearby - and she had some sort of report or brief to review, but the day was too nice to stay in her office, so she walked down to the park along the river and kicked off her shoes and read her paperwork.
Nothing particularly special about her or the picture, I just enjoyed the sight of a pretty woman relaxing and working on a sunny day.But...did I mention frolicsome..?
I was there drilling some soil borings right down along the public path at the edge of the river, a very popular place to walk or run. And, sure enough, around midday along the path comes a youngish woman jogging.
Now she wasn't doing anything especially distinctive, except that she was an extremely healthy young woman, very...womanly...in her physique. And she either couldn't afford a lot of running clothing or she just liked form-fitting attire, because her spandex top and running tights didn't hide much, and there was...ummm...a LOT to hide.
Her frontispiece was positively heroic, and her curves lavishly architectural. Her nipples, like two perky little point men, scouted her progress along the sunny asphalt. She was bright, and blonde, and when she jogged she was a masterwork of parabolic motion, and I have to say honestly; I stopped working for a moment to just watch her go past.
Now I adore my wife. She is helpmeet, lover, friend, wise counselor, sweet confidant, brave companion, tender bride. I find her every part winsome and desirable, and consider her in all respects but not least of those in her physical pulchritude the utter Acme of Womanhood.
But I'm also male. And human.
And so I watched her go past.
And tried not to be a total boor as she jogged by, her brave vibrations each way free. And very nice vibrations they were, I must say. So I appreciated the view as she passed, from stem to stern, front to rear, top to bottom. And even that was positively...well, I don't think bottoms can be "perky" so let's call hers "jaunty". And as those jaunty haunches went bounding past I caught a look at the back of her black jogging tights, on which was written, straining valiantly to span that surging fundament, to skywrite across that cloud-puff expanse of derriere;
"Love Pink".
And for the life of me, I still can't think of anything to say.
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