After weeks of an ongoing discussion about my weight with our dog, (“How big do you think Mommy’s going to get before she pops?”), my hubby devised a different tactic to steer me toward weightloss: he cut a walking path through our property.
Excited, (and knowing I have the same directional aptitude as a carpet tack), he offered to walk with me. “We BOTH could use the exercise,” he noted. (He’s right, of course. I recently celebrated a birthday and, coincidentally, my new age exactly equals the number of pounds I’ve gained OVER my “fat” weight–you know, the weight I swore I’d NEVER exceed again as long as I’m alive.) Sure. I’ll start a walking regime. The trek is a half-mile, so once in the morning and once in the evening puts me at a mile a day.
I started off with him on Morning Number One, walking stick in one hand, Dasani in the other, while “Miss I’m Too Cute and Adorable to Potty Outside” darted back and forth chasing butterflies and sniffing the scent residue from whatever critter lurked across our lawn during the night.
Why the walking stick? No, I’m not (yet) old and decrepit. But Arkansas mornings are not only filled with chirping birds and fluttering butterflies–spider webs loom between every tree. And we live in the woods. I’m not particularly afraid of spiders or snakes, but I detest walking through webs. Yuck! Thus the stick–to slap down webs while I walk.
So, we’re off. And sure enough, within minutes a web crossed our path. I raised my stick and gave it a good sideways swing and, with one Freudian slip of the stick, WHACK! It came down across the back of hubby’s neck. Oops! (I promise it had NOTHING to do with the Mommy Popping remark.)
Proof that walking is hazardous to your (spouse’s) health.
(Sorry, Sweetheart!)
