I Hate Walking

I hate walking. I could go get chicken wings instead. Chicken wings are way better than walking. That would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Spencer would be upset if I spent money on chicken wings. I don’t want to stress him out. Nope, I should just let this stupid Fitbit get to 10,000 steps. That’s the goal. Just get the steps and go home. Okay, just walk it out. I don’t want to be fat anymore. What makes me fat? Does walking make me fat? No. Walking is good for me. You know what makes me fat? Friggin chicken. Saucy, breaded, deep-fried and delicious chicken wings. I need to stop with the chicken. Remember the just “Just say no to drugs” campaign from middle school? Someone should have warned us about staying away from things that make us fat. I never did the drug thing. Most of the people I grew up with never did the drug thing. We did the Subway thing and the Carl’s Jr thing and the chicken wing thing. That’s the drug of my generation, folks. Now we’re all fat and addicted. It’s a good thing the trees are pretty. If I was homeless, I’d live in a tree like that. It’s all secluded. I wonder if homeless people live in that tree. I doubt this area gets patrolled too often. Access to water, secluded, nearby street lights; yep, it’s perfect. I still have my pepper spray, right? These people probably think I look stupid patting my fanny-pack. Am I supposed to make eye contact? Crap, what’s the socially acceptable thing again? Minimal eye contact, smile and nod. Stupid talker, now I have to say hello too. What kind of squeaky “hi” was that? I bet they didn’t expect that. They’re probably talking about how they expected the lonely, fat fanny-pack lady to have a sturdier voice. Can I be done yet? Only 5,267 steps? What the heck? Maybe it’s not counting accurately. Okay, we’ll assume we’re starting at 5,250 and...1, 2, 3, 4, 5….97, 98, 99, 100, 101...wait, I walk faster than I can say 102. Okay, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 110...7, 8, 9, 200. Oh, I guess it does match up alright. Fanny-pack Fatty in a Fitbit, keep it going. We’ll turn around at the next sitting area. The halfway point is in sight. Just get there. No! The front of my pants is wet. Seriously, I peed myself a little. I went to the bathroom before I left. I haven’t had water. Okay, it’s okay, it’s just a little. No one will notice. Just turn at the bench and, frickity frick frick, more pee? It’s starting to chafe a little bit. Ouch! Okay, if I sit for a minute and look at my phone then woman-spreading to dry my pee pants will look natural-ish. Holy crap, that’s cold! You’ve betrayed me, Breeze! Okay, walk! I should embrace it. I’ve had a million kids. Incontinence is the consequence of having babies. I should teach my kids that. The consequence thing, not about incontinence. Something profound like, “Well, consequences aren’t inherently good or bad; they’re simply the product of your choice. If you have a baby, your boobs will probably sag. That doesn’t mean that having the baby was bad.” Yeah, I’ve got to flesh that out more when I don’t look like an idiot pressing my thighs together as I walk so I don’t end up with pee-soaked pants. Keep it together, Fanny-pack Fatty, literally. “It’s a revolutionary new form of power-walking to maximize fat-burn,” I’ll tell people as they walk by. Keep your thighs squeezed together and your butt cheeks clenched and throw those fat legs out in a mad dash to get back into the van away from all the well-intentioned glances. My stupid Facebook friends that are fitness coaches always want to know what keeps the normy-moms like me from working out. Some write that they have no time, some that they’re too tired when they do have time, and all kinds of BS like that. I want someone to be honest. I want someone to say, “Incontinence!” or “Saggy boobs hurt to work out with!” or “I don’t want people, including my family, to see how much my fat wobbles when I do your stupid jumping jacks, Kombucha Karli!” I am too young for adult diapers. Are those bulky? Like, would it be obvious I’m wearing them under my camo leggings? Who am I kidding? As long as I’ve got the camo leggings, no one will see them! I’m so clever. I’d tell that joke to Spencer but he’d just be grossed out by my pee pants. Aw crap, how am I going to get past him when I get home? Can I manage to get into the shower without him or the kids identifying the rank smell of ammonia? I’ll worry about that when I get there; right now I need to focus on getting back to the van...while more wetness seems to be trickling every couple minutes or so. Don't they make actual pee pants? I should get myself some. I would live in them. Not the same ones, obviously; that would be gross. Man, am I glad I'm not walking with anyone today! Ah-ha! Van in sight! I don’t even care about the steps. No! There’s a whole pack of teenage boys in between me and safety. They’ve already noticed me, though they don’t seem to care. Any minute now, one of them is going to notice Pee Pants McGee in her fanny-pack. Nope, I can do better. They’ll see Fitbit Fanny-pack Fatty in her Precious Printed Pee Pants. Yeah, that’s what they’ll call me. It’ll be their favorite tongue-twister and they’ll say it over and over to each other all through the evening. Only teenage boys don’t do tongue-twisters, do they? Nope. They just get quiet as I walk past. Thank heavens for social distancing as I walk precariously past them. This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass, and...freedom. Why am I doing this every day? I hate walking.