We were inching down the block towards dinner.
Nick, adjusting his stride to near stasis to accommodate me. And me, rocking back and forth, trying to propel myself forward with as much alacrity and grace as possible.
I'm kidding about the grace part. That never figures into anything anymore.
The truth is that now I just do whatever I can to go forward. Keeping moving, I have discovered, is important.
You stop and you're screwed. Restarting? Very hard.
So at this point I should mention that my husband, like many men, is a problem solver. And generally, he's very, very good at it.
And most of the time, I appreciate it.
Most of the time.
So he steps, and I plod, and this is clearly a lot of work.
And I, who wanted to stay home and eat Popsicles, rather than struggling out the door for dinner in the first place, am not remotely subtle about the fact that I am not having any fun.
Plod. Scowl. Plod. Grimace.
"I was thinking about how your hips are hurting."
"They hurt all the time?"
"All the fucking time now."
"Well, do you think they'd hurt less if you didn't walk like that?"
"Maybe try not walking like a duck and see if that helps."