911: We've got a speed walking situation

I'm a fast walker. Not as fast as my old roomie, who went at a pace I eventually had to nickname, "Jenny Speed," but in general, these long legs passed down from my Grandma Guckeen, they move pretty fast.

And no, I did not cultivate these skills by grabbing my hot pink fanny pack every Saturday morning and joining the local chapter of Mall Walkers Anonymous. It just comes naturally.

So you can imagine my annoyance when I thought I was about to be lapped walking from my car to my apartment Friday night. I had spotted the male speed walker at least two blocks behind me when I had crossed the street. Anyone that knows how to walk properly (and judging by crowds in the local malls here and some interactions on the Marquette campus, no this does not in fact include the general population), you would think that I wouldn't have to worry about this guy lapping me.

But there it was. Just seconds later. The patter of his feet quickly on my heels. Apparently I missed the moment when he transformed from normal human into The Flash.

But then it happened. He didn't lap me. He caught up to me. And turned and smiled.

Oh no. Either he wanted my money or my body. Where's my rosary?!

I'm a journalist. It comes with the territory-- when something disastrous looks like it's about to unveil itself, I form a headline in my brain as the story of my life reveals itself.

YOUNG WOMAN SLAIN ON WALK HOME
YOUNG REPORTER KILLED BLOCKS FROM APARTMENT
CATHOLIC HERALD REPORTER MISSING: POLICE BELIEVE SUSPECT IS A SPEED WALKER

My cell phone was dead, falling victim to another night of too many hours on the phone with Seth and my genius decision to not buy a car charger when I got my new phone (online dating was really going to be the death of me!) No one was in sight. Just me and the head of cabbage I had just purchased at the grocery store. Could that alone defend me in my time of need?

And then the unthinkable happened. He opened his mouth and out came the fatal words:

"You're cute. Do you have a boyfriend?"

Umm...excuse me? Are you hitting on me?

I was speechless. Well. Not entirely. I was able to get out a "thank you" and "yes as a matter of fact I do" while remaining positively flabbergasted, particularly when he replied, "Well you better tell your boyfriend that he better do right."

Was that a threat? Was this random man on the street threatening my Southern Charmer? Or was he defending the honor of some woman he just met on the street?

I have no clue. But I made sure to do a second walk around the block after meeting him to ensure he couldn't follow me home. God forbid he assume my boyfriend lives with me and attempts to challenge him to a joust or something.

Recounting the story to Seth, he didn't seem quite as amused, but rather, more concerned that I was no longer just getting hit on by guys from the Catholic dating sites I'm still registered for, but also by random men on the street. Random men that could very well frequent all those police reports I used to pick up as an intern at the Journal Sentinel.

From over 600 miles away, he did the only thing that he could think of. And so came the question Sunday night.

"What address do you want me to mail your car charger to?"