Saturday, February 19, 2011

A Sunny Saturday in Stumptown: Willfully Waddling for Weight Loss

"With the sun beating down like this in February, Dolly-girl, I just gotta get out for an extendo-waddle. You know, a Beluga Slim Special! I'll see you at Radio Room at 3!" "I'll be there or I'll be square, daddy-o! Take your blower, Jack, in case I decide I need you to pick something up at my dealer's place when you walk by." Dolly-girl's developed an addiction.

I took off and wound my way around here and there. I stopped by a guy's I know, name of Fred. Got some ink for the monk that prints out Dolly-girl's verses.

I made it to Dolly-girl's dealer in not too long an order. What I call Fiora's Crack Dealer, others know as Kettleman's Bagels. Kettleman's has the real thing--a real New York bagel. By the time I got there, it was too late. I poked my head in the door. "She's already been here, Jack. I know, she's outta control, but there was no stoppin' her on the 2-fer and a couple of cans of schmear. She was outta here like a shot--said she was headed home to do one quick." "Thanks, Pal-o-Mine--I know where to find her, curled up in a corner, drooling..."

I waddled on, giving Dolly-girl time to come down before I called her. People were out playing softball in the sun. It made me feel good to know that the National Pastime's time is just around the corner.

Speaking of corners, at least from time to time, I got to pause and take a breather. When you waddle at the rate I try to maintain, it's good to see the light go from Walk to Weight, I mean Wait, so as I can have a little break.
Finally, I was closing in on my goal. I saw Dolly-girl down the street with that look she only gets after she's toasted a half an Everything and slathered it. She was weaving like a Charleston basket-maker.

We went in and i ordered a coupla tall, cold ones. I could tell she was starting to come down, but I knew Sunday morning would see her up early, digging in her bag, and hovering over the toaster.

Me, I had them hit it again, knowing that there was no way to live with someone whose got the taste that bad. She was already jonesing--"Maybe tomorrow it will be an onion with a salmon schmear..." The good news for me? Rack up an 8.98 mile waddle!

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