Walking the walk

The other morning I was driving through a rather un-scenic part of Springfield, Mass., looking in vain for my new allergist's office. Google Maps totally let me down on this one. A quick call to the office (from a gas station parking lot--I can't talk on the phone and drive stick at the same time) put me back on track, but I was fifteen minutes late and that made my punctual, detail-oriented self very sad.

While lost in Springfield for what seemed like forty days and forty nights, I noticed a young man clad in an oversized hoodie and pants so baggy that he had to hold them up as he walked--no, make that waddled--down the street.

I find this fashion trend very amusing. Mrs. Gerbil tells me that it began as a statement of solidarity with prisoners, who aren't allowed belts for their ill-fitting pants. But, dude. There's got to be ways to express your empathy that don't involve clutching your inseam to prevent spontaneous trou-dropping.

Nevertheless, I found myself in solidarity with this young man. No, my pants aren't in danger of falling down (far from it!)--but I'm also a waddler these days. I walk like a pregnant lady. It's a distinctive gait, like that of an Egyptian or of a psychiatrist.

Although pregnant ladies wobble but don't fall down, we sure have interesting ways of putting one foot in front of the other--especially when we can't see our feet anymore.

(BTW, the gerb is pretty much fully cooked at this point. Now we just have to wait around for it to pick a date for its debut!)