In an effort to keep the inevitable pregnancy weight gain at bay, every weekday morning I take my ridiculous dog for a 30-minute walk in our neighborhood. I’ve been wearing shorts and tank tops for who knows how long, and then suddenly, it’s fall in SoCal. No gradual change in weather, this. Blustery winds, chilly air, and sunshine that spills over the sky like honey in that Honey Nut Cheerios commercial. Now I must wear pants. PANTS! For the woman whose waistline defies all pants that once fit her. Grrr.
Our route takes us by a junior high school. I try to go as early as I can, so as to avoid the packs of obnoxious pre-teens who won’t move aside when I come along with my giant dog, who WILL lunge at them if they are within a 10-yard radius. Not to injure, mind you, but to lick them to death.
When I do manage to get out early, I always pass a guy I call The Walking Man. He walks without real purpose around the school, always wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and a gray jacket. Even in 90-degree weather at 6:30 in the morning. We always greet each other, and sometimes if I walk around the school I’ll pass him a second time.
One day I must have been earlier than usual, because when I got past the school I saw The Walking Man standing in front of a house, not wearing his Walking uniform, drinking coffee. He said good morning and I blurted out “Hey, you’re The Walking Man!” He said “My name is Mark.”
Well that just ruined it for me. There’s no mystery left. The Walking Man is a much cooler name than Mark. Now when I go out on that route I try to avoid him. I’ve replaced him with Shuffling Man, who will get his own story once he does something interesting.
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