F*** Off! I'm trying to breathe!

Nobody strolls anymore.

I think strolling went out about the time pet rocks took over the impulse-buy racks at the supermarkets. Remember Atticus Finch strolling with Jem and Scout past Boo's house and all the wonderful education that happened on that slow walk past the scary tree? There's no time for walking and education anymore. Much like the separation of religion and education, we now have a wonderfully pragmatic canyon between education and walking.

People are becoming genetically predispositioned to not be able to walk without placing little thingies in their ears. Generations ago, 'buds' either referred to the pre-flower part of a plant or the dried flakes you mixed with hot water to magically make mashed potatoes appear. Then, sometime in the late 60's or early 70's, 'buds' referred to something a bit more magical and mystical, something to be grown covertly in your shoe closet- away from your parents and dog - and shared (i.e. sold) to your friends.

Now, somehow, 'buds' have become metallic listening devices that have nothing to do with plants (edible or smokable) and pump music of all varieties into our ears. Without these remarkable little technological miracles, it seems we wouldn't be able to ambulate at all. Like the vestigial coccyx and appendix- remember them? didn't think so!- it seems our sense of putting one foot in front of the other and getting somewhere has disappeared. Because of our technological advanced-ness, we forgot how to walk on our own!

Walking has become a competitive sport. We buy spandex walking suits, eighty dollar walking shoes, designer hydration systems, and of course the imperative mp3 players with earbuds. We can't just walk out the front door and head up the street anymore. People would stare. We've got to drive to the trail so we can maximize our steps, ensuring the best step-to-calory-burning ratio. I believe that in our wisdom it must have been proven somewhere that fat burns off our bodies much more readily when we're pounding new government-paved pavement in an outfit that costs over two hundred bucks. Our fat has obviously mutated into some ultra-finicky beast that resists the old school cotton shirt and Converse with tube socks.

There's no room for conversation in walking. And don't even think about walking for pleasure. If you're not maximizing your stride and pushing twenty minutes into your optimal cardio-zone, you're wasting your time. If you want to socialize, get a phone and text like everyone else is doing. Don't even try to walk like your grandpa used to, clasping both hands behind his back, leaning forward a little, and stopping at every Dogwood to check on the buds (remember- we don't have those anymore) just before they bloomed. The miracles of nature can be clearly documented by well-paid videographers who'll put together a fantastic thirty-minute, slow-motion super high definition montage of flowers blooming that you can watch from the comfort of your Lazy Boy. There's no time for nature on walks. Nature should be put where it belongs - on TV. Walking is for one purpose and one purpose only - showing off expensive walking clothes.

I learned all these lessons, that are apparently blatantly obvious to all others, as I learn most of my life-learnings- the bluntly hard way. Some of us can look around and discern one or two things by observation or at least osmosis. It seems I can't.

Case in point:

Keri and I walk almost nightly. I observe all the above-notated realities of the walking world regularly. I hear the Hyper-bass pounding from earbuds as a set of well-toned legs scoots past me in some sort of slithery choreography. I see the perspiration-wicking ultra fabrics and plyo-plex boingy-bottom Italian walking shoes spring past me as I clamber along the asphalt.

But I persist in my pedantory stubborness, sporting the same washer-eaten tee shirt and beat-down tennis shoes I've walked, run, and mowed the lawn in for years. I wear my clothes like I drive my cars. If they're paid for, run the hell out of them until they send up a white flag and then THINK ABOUT getting something new. So I walk and try to do all the wrong things like look at stuff and have conversations.

Big mistake.

We were 'pushing it' up this ginormous hill we call everything from "the beast" to "that bastard of a hill" to "the widowmaker." I was looking at stuff. Keri was feeling the burn and maximizing her cardio. I was thinking about how cool it would be to pull back a branch from the woods next to us and see Sasquatch taking a dump. Keri was thinking about how freaking hot is was that day. We got to the top of the hill, and I did the absolute wrong thing. I had a thought that I shared out loud.

"Hey, honey. Did I ever tell you about the time I was running this trail, and I saw that guy whipping a frisbee golf frisbee across this whole field?"

I didn't look at her cause my scattered mind was already trying to figure out how far it was to the end of the field. I figured she was right there with me, so I continued.

"Well, this guy is just absolutely hammering these throws. I mean it must be at least a couple hundred yards. How far do you think it...???"

Then she decided to engage in the conversation.

"F*** off! I'm trying to breathe!!!"

Apparently her cardio had been maximized, and she was feeling the burn. She gave me that look that reminded me I had broken all of the cardinal rules of walking. I wasn't focused on my cardio. I was thinking of stuff. Shame on me!

She must have seen the shock on my face, so she punched my lovingly in the arm (with her non-ring finger, which always tells me she's just lovin' on me.) And, being the ridiculously stubborn non-learner type that I am, I took that as my cue to have another conversation with her.

"Ha! You kind of sounded like one of the Commitments there! This could be a scene from some sort of wild 80's hybrid movie of the Commitments starring in Vision Quest or something! You could be this cussaholic cute Irish chick from the slums of Dublin who sings and trains to wrestle against...."

...and so it went. Me, continuing to bask in the ignorance of my non-21st century-walking ways. Keri, forever putting up with my unremovable backward habits and loving me even while she maximized her cardio. That's what love's all about really, isn't it - being stuck in the backwoods of life with the one you love, while the superhighway of life breezes by you scant inches away, and you just look at it and say: "F*** off! I'm trying to breathe here!"