Walk of Shame

For years, I had been certain that I would always be a runner. I would never become one of those old ladies in a matchy matchy sweatsuit walking through the neighborhood for exercise. At least I still don't own a sweat suit. Heck, my socks don't even match.

So I walk, except when I'm feeling particularly irrational and decide to take a half hour run that will no doubt incapacitate me for days. This morning, with my jet lag about half cured and my sanity (such as it is) half restored, I set out on a walk and noticed almost immediately that the face of the neighborhood has changed. Today is the first full day of elementary school here in deep dark suburbia, and everywhere I looked children were walking. Not just elementary age children, but larger children. The streets had been overtaken by a new demographic; there was not an adult in sight.

When I realized an inordinate number of the female children appeared to be pregnant, it occurred to me that even though I have yet to purchase a matchy matchy sweat suit I am indeed old. Young mothers and fathers in their thirties are looking prepubescent to me. These children smiling politely at me as we passed each other on the sidewalk were really just being smug. I knew exactly what they were thinking. How quaint that she is still trying to take care of herself. That will never happen to me. Where is her matchy matchy sweatsuit, and what the heck is the deal with her socks?

Insolent little brats. I had half a mind to bend down and have a little chat with some of the smaller children, let them in on their parents' dirty little secret. Luckily, my knees were feeling a little to stiff for bending. Otherwise I would have told the little tykes how excited mom and dad were that the first full day of school had finally arrived. Those hugs at the school house doors might be sincere, but the murmured I miss you's, well, not so much. Trust me kids, mom and dad have big plans for the day that do not include you, and if you want to know how to make them cry, just whisper three o'clock in their ears.

At least those thirty somethings who still look like children will soon have their comeuppance, sooner than they can possibly imagine. One day they will know what it feels like on the day their youngest child sets off, in her own car, on the first day of her last year in high school. They will know what it feels like to go out for a walk (because it hurts too much to run) before their child leaves the house in the morning just so they can resist the temptation to leap across the kitchen floor and grab her by the ankles and beg her not to go.

On the back end of my walk there were still a few large children straggling home, smiling broadly, looking nauseatingly happy. I'll let them have their fun, and I'll comfort myself with the knowledge that when the clock strikes three, their lives will be hell and I'll be the one doing a victory dance.

Maybe I'll buy myself a comfy matchy matchy sweatsuit today, and when three o'clock rolls around I'll throw it on and do what nature intended for us to do at that hour -- take a nap.