Sometimes when Henry and I go for our walk, we have some pep in our step. We’re moving. Crack-a-lackin. It’s at those times that I think that if I walked like this every day, I could be in some kind of shape. Then I imagine myself in a Little Black Dress at a cocktail party, and people looking at me and saying, “Girl, you could give Madonna a run for the money with those arms of yours.”
I throw my head back. I laugh. I’m fit. In the party. In my head.
While on one of those walks, I chatted with another walker, pumped my arms, waved to the guy with the beagles on the other side of the park, stopped along the roadside to pick up poop, walked it over to the trash can, continued down the busy street, waved to a friend driving by, and waited at the corner for the light to change.
That’s when I discovered my exercise pants were inside out, so through the park, bent over, down the street and on the corner, the white sewn in undies were exposed for all to see.
Spectacular exercise fail and I bet I got talked about that day.
