It's a topsy-turvy world, but somebody's got to write about it

I just got back from a jaunt around the neighborhood and it has occurred to me that there's this one nagging thing about taking walks outside that presents itself as a thorn in my be-Niked side: walkers passing walkers.

Bike riders and runners have an unspoken agreement that permits them to yell "LEFT!" whenever they're passing someone, but walkers--no. They've got nothing but an awkward, startling moment when they see someone walking directly beside them. I'm obviously not talking about walkers passing other walkers going in opposite directions--no, that's never a problem. The only issue there is when to make eye contact and how long to hold it, but that's a different blog post for a different day. When one is on a walking path, trying to power through the Reece's cups she ate the previous day (this happened to a friend of mine) and she spies another walker up ahead walking in the same direction, but slightly slower than her briskly stepping self, she is between a rock and a hard place: She can't yell out "LEFT!", completely startling her walking neighbor and then walk awkwardly right next to them for the longest half-second in history, if at a slightly quicker pace. Pretending to be a runner would be a complete farce, if only for the huffing and puffing and clutching her side as she cramps up. It's a lose-lose situation. So, what does she (I) do? Just try to walk as quickly as she possibly can without looking like she has some neurological problem past the other person, saying hello (which totally scares the bejeezus out of most people anyway) and pressing onward. Oh, the perils of suburbia.

Andrew and I have been wanting to start swimming together for exercise, just for a change of scenery and to get back into the greatest sport ever made. Both of UNC's pools are currently under construction, so they've contracted out with two of the local rec departments to allow students to use the pools for free. Yesterday morning, we went to "Homestead Aquatics" to dip our toes in the lap pool and see just how out of shape we really were. First of all, Homestead Aquatics sounds like a place that sells cattle and fish tanks. Secondly, I did not want to put on my cherry-red TYR unitard for everyone to stare at my undulating hind-quarters as I made my way from the locker room to the pool deck. I did make it to the pool alive and relatively unscathed, until I realized that my husband had traded places with Michael Phelps and left me in the dust--er, bubbles. Andrew had this whole plan of "sets" and "drills" and "warm-ups" and all these things that made me just want to sink underwater and have a tea party at the bottom of the pool. At the end of our workout, however, I did feel really good--swimming really is the best exercise there is. We're going to try, try, try to swim at least twice a week, if not three times. And maybe the unitard might not be such a scary thing. Best laid plans of mice and men. We shall see!

In my next blog post (or one coming up) I will be making a nut wreath. Chew on that.