I’m a BIG Boy!
Gail and I just got back from our midday runabout. It’s been so freakin’ hot lately that neither one of us really wanted to go out or do anything, but it’s only 86 now, so what the hell. Went to the mailbox first. Then, I wanted a bottle of brandy. (On the Simpsons last night, Mr. Burns was clutching a glass of brandy. It made me want a glass of brandy. I am an easily-influenced person.)
Then we went to the grocery store. I got some chicken, Gail got some healthy stuff.
And as we were walking out to the car, Gail noticed I was taking little teeny steps.
“Are you taking BIG BOY steps?” she asked.
Right there, I froze. Thinking about what’s involved in “Big Boy steps” totally confused my midbrain and we ground to a halt. Gail took my right arm, and I started extending my stride.
Then she noticed I was looking at my feet when I was walking.
“Nuh-uh! No looking at your feet. Look up!” she demanded.
“So much to think about,” I whined.
See, the things you HUMANS do without even thinking about it, WE of the PARKINSONIAN race have to actually consider each action involved in a movement.
We got back into the car, and Gail said, “If you wanna have Big Boy Juice (meaning the brandy), ya gotta take Big Boy Steps!”
And she’s right. Hopefully the day may come when I can start wearing Big Boy underpants again, too!