I walk fast. This isn’t just an American vs. the world cultural kind of thing, I walk fast by anyone’s standards. I don’t know, I guess I just love the feeling of the wind rushing past my face at 3.5 miles per hour. My lovely and tolerant wife, on the other hand, is a smell-the-flowers kind of stroller, which brings forth all sorts of great metaphors and object lessons in the context of marriage, and under which I am willing to stipulate that, well, she’s basically right most of the time, which comes as no surprise to anyone who actually knows the two of us.
It’s been a busy week (by way of explaining the gap in posts), and on a couple of occasions I had an extended period of walking along the main boulevard near our flat, which led me to the inescapable conclusion that while I may walk too fast, at least I walk *straight*. My fellow travelers would be ambling along in front of me, and as I would angle around them, giving them at *least* 3 or 4 centimeters, they would drift into my path, forcing a re-calibration.
In other words, yep, I was the pedestrian version of that jerk in the souped-up Subaru who weaves in and out of traffic like the backup alternate stunt driver for Fast and Furious XXI: Wheelchairs at the Speed of Sound. Another item on that growing list of things I’ve got to work on….