I’m just a lovable guy

I’m a lovable guy. People are attracted to me.

And that’s not just something I repeat ten times in the mirror every morning before my 35-mile run. It’s the truth.

How do I know? Because no matter how far I go to be alone, someone always finds me.

At the grocery store, I park on the outer edge of the lot—literally 7,000 empty spaces—and someone always pulls in right next to me.

At the gym, I go at 4 a.m. when it’s completely deserted. I pick the farthest treadmill. Minutes later, someone hops on the one right beside me.

At StarDucks, I grab a remote table to think and write. Without fail, someone flops down next door, slams their Stanley bottle, and loudly demolishes a Frappuccino like it owes them money.

At weekday morning Mass, I sit at the very end of the pew—half for the solitude, half in case a lightning bolt from above decides to make an appearance. Doesn’t matter. Mrs. Havenshank or the meat delivery guy from the corner store always chooses my pew. And sits way too close.

Even on the golf course, where I like to walk for the peace and quiet, Mr. Talk Talk inevitably appears, matching my pace and giving me a detailed history of his hemorrhoid saga—from diagnosis to ointment.

I’m just a lovable guy. People are attracted to me.