I spit. Not when I'm shopping for ball gowns. But I spit when I play soccer, when I run, and when I feel the context calls for it. If I'm at a bar and a male tells me I'm fuckable, I'm either going to spit at him or kick him in the balls. I'm a lady. If saliva mounts in my mouth because of physical activity and I feel like I am going to have a heart attack, I'm going to spit. It reenergizes me, and then I feel like I can breathe. The run I habitually consummate threads along Auckland's Waitemata Harbor. I gaze at downtown Auckland, boats, and Auckland residents in the most recent season's Nike work-out gear. For women, this comprises spandex running pants with matching tank-top, hat, socks, and shoes. I run in a soccer shirt and soccer shorts. I brought two sets of each to New Zealand.
Last week I was stretching when a woman who looked like someone's great-aunt who has had three strokes toddled to me, placed her hands on either side of my face, and asked if I was alright.
"Yes... are you okay?" I responded.
"Of course. You just looked... are you sure you're okay?"
"Definitely. Thanks," I said with a smile. I'd been stretching for three minutes but must have looked like I was suffocating.
Today, three miles in and my drool pyramided in my chops. I took three strides while gathering my froth and then spat a colossal loogie towards the water. A few more steps, and then I heard the screaming through my headphones. I stopped and turned to observe a fifty-year-old man stationary on the sidewalk. He held my spit in his hand. He wiped the side of his face with the back of his hand. Auckland harbor's wind is boisterous and must have blown my saliva on his face. I apologized as vehemently as if I had run over his child. I offered for him to spit on me. His response, "I. Don't. Spit." Five minutes later I left him, me still apologizing, him still foaming at the mouth.
When I returned to the house for a glass of water, the mom I au pair for asked me how my run was. I relayed the spitting episode to her. The grandma walked out of the pantry looking as horrified as if I had injected heroin into her eye. The mom did not look amused.
"People in New Zealand don't spit," the mom informed me, "unless they're brushing their teeth."
Apparently Kiwis don't launch spit when working out or doing physical activity. Kiwi females also don't drink beer. They drink wine or spirits. I spit and drink beer. I swear I was raised properly.