Walkin' Two Miles...

You ever heard that old adage that says, "That broke me from suckin' eggs?" It comes from an old expression about a hound dog that liked to get in the chicken pen and eat eggs until one day he got crossways with a mama hen.

Well, that was very real to me several years ago and I flat out learned my lesson the hard way just like that hound dog did. It all started when my daughter said that we were going to walk two miles a day--before breakfast. She didn't say that we were going to attempt to walk two miles a day but that we would start with a reasonable amount and build up to the two miles within a year. No sir, she didn't and me not paying close attention was my first mistake.

Then she said we would drink two or three quarts of water each day which would be good for our muscles, all our insides, fat cells and I believe she mentioned something about ingrown toenails and gray hair. Again, I wasn't listening too closely because I figured that if I walked two blocks that morning I'd be ready for at least a gallon of water.

The first morning she arrived in her walking shoes, some kind of stretchy knee britches and a determined expression on her face that said this was some serious business. No jokes. No puns. No excuses.

I'd donned my stretchy knee britches and a long shirt to cover up a multitude of fat cells. The britches were necessary, she informed me, to keep our fat little thighs from rubbing together. Even though the thermometer on the back porch was not reading in the three digit numbers, I was afraid that much friction would set me on fire. I tied my walking shoes in a double knot so I wouldn't trip over the laces and I did my best to look as serious as she did.

Her legs are a good bit longer than mine so after that first block of doing double time to keep up, I'd started to pray that my britches would live up to the promise of keeping my thighs from going up in flames. Sometime during the second block, every fat cell in my boy started to moan and I started to sweat. I hate to sweat. I don't care if it's natural. I have never been accused of being a lover of nature.

"If we don't slow down your going to have to call the fire department and an ambulance," I huffed. My poor little heart was threatening to jump right out of my chest and race back home to the air conditioned house.

Good grief! This walking stuff was supposed to increase my cardio-vascular something-or-other and give me more lung power. My heart was tellin' me that I'd been lied to. And my lungs were screaming that they didn't need more power. My children were grown and grandmothers aren't nearly as prone to raising their voices as mothers are.

"You're walking faster than the speed of sound," I told her when we'd rounded the bend in the road.

"I'm hoping that we can build up to three miles by the middle of next week," she said without a hitch in her breath.

"Yeah, right!" I need oxygen. I had shin splits, chest pains and my feet were crying out in pain.

I survived the first leg of the journey, which was the mile mark she'd charted out. Now all I had to do was turn around and make it home. My mouth felt as if it had been swabbed out with cotton balls soaked in alum. But I managed to turn around and right there was a root beer bottle that someone had tossed out to the side of the road. It was half full and had a cap on it. I didn't care if the folks who tossed it had chicken pox, the flu or if the root beer was warm and flat. It was so hot that any self respecting germ had long since been fried and sent to that great germ place in the sky. I reached for it and my daughter kicked it over a barbed wire fence.

Lord have mercy! She could still kick a bottle like a football after walking a mile in the heat. I felt sorry for anyone who ever thought they were mean enough to tangle with her.

We made it back home where I collapsed on the sofa in a moaning heap. She made us each a tall glass of ice water and brought it to me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to drink it, pour it on top of my head or maybe soak my feet in it. It seemed a shame to waste it all on the inside of my body when the outside was in such pain.

Every day she arrived at my house at eight o'clock and at the end of the summer we weren't up to that three mile mark. She kept talking about the goal being four miles by Christmas. I couldn't burst her little dream bubble by telling her that four miles was her dream. It was my nightmare and if she pushed it past that two miles, I would jump the barbed wire fence and drink every drop of that root beer.

That all happened years ago and we stopped walking one week when the fall rains set in. Never got back to it but I did find my stretchy britches when I was cleaning out a dresser drawer. I trashed them in a hurry!

Y'all got an event in your life that broke you from suckin' eggs?

The first divorce...

I certainly do not feel like I'm an authority on this business of folks divorcing, but I did live through one set of parents splitting the blanket. And I managed to survive a stepfather and at least nine stepmothers. Even though I'm not an expert I do have an theory about why a big majority of divorces ae on record and it's not because of that cute little bar room rosie down at the Corner Bar and Grill making eyes at someone's husband.

Let's go back to the days before us women even heard that song about burning our bras, our bridges and the candles at both ends. Back before women demanded rights when it came to jobs, children and even the right to raise her voice to her husband. 

As Sophia said on Golden "Picture This,":

Here is the dutiful wife sitting home raising kids and keeping husband happy.

Husband gets up in the morning and chooses a freshly ironed shirt and slacks from the closet. His shoes are polished and right there beside the dresser where his tie, socks and underwear area all laid out neatly. He dresses and goes to the kitchen where his breakfast is all ready: ham, eggs fried perfectly, hot biscuits, hash browns without a single burnt edge and pancakes. There's his choice of white syrup or dark, and six kinds of homemade jams on the table.

After breakfast, he picks up his briefcase at the door, kisses her on the cheek and tells her to have a great day. Right? There's laundry knee deep, floors to mop, dusting to do, grocery shopping to get done and four hours worth of ironing to finish before she starts supper that evening, plus the five kids will have to be fed lunch and dealt with all day.

At five thirty the husband walks back in the door to find a house that could be featured in "Better Homes and Gardens" or maybe at least considered for an ad for a soap commercial. The kids are clean, their little faces aglow from a scrubbing only five minutes ago. His slippers and evening paper are laid out beside his recliner. His supper, complete with candles, place mats, and home made cherry cheesecake is ready to put on the table at exactly six o'clock after he has a cocktail and relaxes for half an hour.

Dutiful wife has on a clean dress, high heeled shoes and has taken the bobby pins out of her hair so that it's fluffed out in curls around her freshly made up face. She smells like gardenias and kisses him sweetly on the cheek.

The husband pats her on the shoulder and says," Oh, honey, I had a rough day at the office. My associate had the flue and had to stay home. The "O" key on my typewriter stuck and that sandwich you packed for my lunch was dried out because you didn't get the waxed paper around it right. Try to do better tomorrow. You know how I hate dried bread. And how was your day? Did you have a nice gossip session with the ladies this morning and read a romance book all afternoon?"

And that, dear hearts, was the cause of the first divorce...and many more since that. It might have been the cause of the women's rights movement and for sure caused many folks to declare law as their major when they started to college.

Am I stepping on anyone's toes?

One Size Fits All...

The clothing business has gotten lazier and lazier in the past years. Used to be a body was a size 6 or 8 or 16 or 24 or even 52 and they could walk into any store or order from any catalog and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the outfit would fit. They didn't even have to try it on...just hang it in the closet and wear it when the time arrived.

Not so these days!

According to the experts, the more you pay for the article of clothing, the smaller the size on the label. So if I want to pay a fortune for a t-shirt, the label can say it's a small. If I don't mind looking at a tag that has a XL on it, then I can buy the same t-shirt for about one tenth of the cost. Seems to me like the whole clothing industry isn't geared to size but to ego. After all I can cut the labels out of both t-shirts since they itch anyway, and no one would be able to tell the difference. They might ask why I bought two just a like, but I can always tell them that one lets me have wings and think I'm a small and the other one is reality and tells me exactly what size I wear.

Then out of nowhere, the industry throws a new size in the mix: ONE SIZE FITS ALL.

Right!

My friend, Lula Rose, is only slightly bigger than the fleas the tom cat out in the back yard brings home. A size 3 hangs on her skinny frame like a burlap bag on a broom handle. Then there's cousin Viola Ruth who buys her clothing at the surplus tent store when it has a sale. Just tell me exactly how one size is supposed to fit both of those women.

Maybe they aren't talking about the garment fitting the whole body. It says, "one size fits all" so maybe that's the secret. It only promises to fit "all."


If the garment falls off Lula Rose's scrawny shoulders then is her all too small? Is it something she should see a psychoanalyst about? Maybe that's why her husband, Jimmy Don, has been seen checkin' out the bar room rosies down at the Y'all Come Back Saloon. He feels cheated because his wife's all is too small.

If Cousin Viola Ruth can't talk the garment down over her shoulders or up over her fanny then is her all too big? We need to figure out just exactly where this illusive all is located so we know if the one size will work, don't we?

It's flat out got me puzzled. Now I have to add this "all" business to my list of worries and the list was plenty long enough before. Last week I didn't even know I had an all and now I have to figure out where it is, whether it needs a few extra pounds to fluff it out so the new sized garments will fit, or if it needs to diet for a week or two. I need to know if my all looks best in spring colors or if it can wear winter colors without looking pale. I've got to figure out if it will blend well with my gray hair and do I need to buy silver rimmed glasses or will my white ones still work?

On the positive side, though, there are garments in every store that will definitely fit my all when I get it all figured out!