Sometimes I wish I lived in Chicago and could be a Trixie. Only for a few minutes.

But let’s focus on New York. On Saturday, I went running for my obligatory monthly workout. On my way back, there were these ridiculous preteen hoodlums blocking the Hudson River pathway for anyone who ran by. As my shitty luck would have it, one kid sprinted up and literally played basketball defense against me as I ran for about five seconds.

I considered blowing my whistle (yes Dad, I had my whistle) and calling him out on the five-second rule, but he didn’t seem like he’d be that into organized sports. I had to actually shove him away (while thinking he might have a gun) with my iPod-wielding forearm (extra threatening!) so I could get by, and spat out a resounding “WTF” in the complete-word variety while doing so.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the kid seemed to really dig this reaction. He backed off and shouted triumphantly to his friends, “What the fuck! She said what the fuck!” It was as if his other little greasy partners-in-crime were recording a log of people’s reactions to their antics. I guess that would be better than playing with guns.

40 steps later, another one of them crept out from behind the bushes like one of those huge Washington Square Park rats who dart out from under the benches and ran towards me. But this time I warned him ahead of time with a simple imperative: “Get out of my face.” I said it calmly and in statement-like form so that things would be more clear. This kid actually backed off right away. Yeah. That’s right.

So what’s the protocol here? They were seriously under 13. At what point are children forgivable, and at what point is it okay to wish you were the one with the gun?

I guess at the very least, this particular could-only-happen-to-Annie experience can serve as a valid excuse to not go running in the near future (read: until April).

Thanks, kids.