Walking May Be Hazardous to His Health

The Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I have taken up walking. Again. We used to do this, but you know how it is, once we have the teeniest excuse to stop exercising for even a day or two, it takes an act of Congress to get us going again. And acts of Congress have been hard to come by. But let’s not go there—it’s too depressing.


So once I hit the three-week mark post-surgery, we started doing a 20-minute brisk walk every day. Okay, we missed once, but there were serious and unchangeable commitments that prevented us from getting it in. And I have a note from my mother. Who’s been dead twenty years… Anyway…

This morning we actually braved the elements and the piles of snow and walked in the neighborhood. Up until today we’ve been driving to the local mall and hauling our sorry asses in countless laps around the potted plants and the kiosks which specialize in unspeakably useless and tacky tchochkes. And these days, when I haul ass, I have to make two trips. Which is why I’m walking.

Oh sure, I can say I’m doing it for the energy, the cardio effect, the osteoporosis benefit, the make-it-up-today disease, or whatever, but let’s face it, I’ve gained weight and it needs to go away. So. We walk.

I know better than to ask CoTU whether these pants make my ass look big. Because the real answer is that my ass makes the pants look big, and anyone who says otherwise is just not dealing with reality. So. The fact that the hub has virtually no ass at all doesn’t help. But maybe he’s trying to whittle his waist down a bit. I really couldn’t say, because that would be wrong.

It’s good to be walking together. There’s time to talk, with no distractions of the phone, the t.v., the mail, the computer or the radio. There is one teeny little thing, though. People.

Yesterday at the mall, CoTU got just a little distracted by the appearance of a lissome, blonde-haired, anorexic young thing strutting ahead of us. Her jeans were so tight you could read the brand name on her underwear. She wore high-heeled boots, and an animal print sweater. Get the picture? So, of course CoTU was looking—he’s only human. I mean, it was no big deal, but he would have walked smack into a pillar if I hadn’t grabbed his sleeve and yanked him to safety.

She was headed for the line at the coffee cart. As we passed, CoTU craned his neck and twisted his head --in that Linda Blair move from the Exorcist-- to get a good look from the front. I’m guessing he wasn’t checking out her face. (Did you read ‘Doonesbury’ the past few days?) I said, “Hey, Babe, go ahead back there and talk to her.” I thought my sarcasm would highlight his folly. He topped me: “Talk??? I don’t wanna talk.”

But today’s walk was devoid of slutty attractive young women, and I am proud to say that we are up to 28 minutes. Walking, that is—get your mind out of the gutter.

Not exactly record-setting, but when we got home, I wanted someone to play the national anthem, and hang a medal around my neck. No, not for the walk. For letting the hubster live.