Earlier this month, the walking pace picked up speed. The season had changed (it seemed) ; it was nice to swing back into the brisk, everyday stride of fall, winter, spring motion. Life was quick with purpose. And then a day or two of heat set me back again: once more the lazy saunter and the fat slap, slap, slap of sandal hitting sidewalk. Purpose? Who was I kidding?
I like it when the body sets the pace, and you just fall in line.
The body likes to strike poses. Nothing dramatic here, just its own childish refusal to stand up straight. An arm taut, a palm flat against a lamp-post while it waits to cross a street, the angle a back measures as it leans against a subway station wall. A leg crossed, a foot resting on its toes. The fool - does it really think it's still a teenager? While walking, too, it rolls up sleeves and pushes hands in pockets. It's not laziness or sullen disregard here - it's simply disappointed by pedestrian gait. I humor it always.
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