Years ago I walked in the Chicago Marathon. The only walkers permitted were those willing to fund-raise for juvenile leukemia. I signed on with three friends and we made it our job to prepare by walking mile after sweaty mile. Naturally, I got into darn good shape.
The evening before the marathon my husband hired a car to ferry me I to the city. We were staying at the Men’s Athletic Club, a jazzy joint one of my friend’s husbands belonged to.
After I climbed out of the car and leaned into the back seat to pull out my small suitcase, I was surprised the driver kept me talking on the curb. I thought, “What a nice friendly fellow.”
Finally, I entered the hotel. The lobby was packed with men of all sizes and stripes. As I strolled past the reception desk all those male eyes were riveted on me. The millions of miles walking had paid off. I clearly looked smoking hot!
To get to my room, I needed to ascend a long open winding staircase. Enjoying the attention I slowed my pace, swung my hips, sashayed those steps and relished the moment.
Upon arriving I called my friends. While on the phone I turned to the full-length mirror intending to dwell on the amazing, wondrous beauty of me.
That’s when I saw the hem of my dress was tucked firmly into the waistband of my pantyhose. And I wasn’t wearing any underpants.
Sigh. I had to go back through that lobby to meet my buddies. That was a radically different walk….
It’s funnier when looking at it through my rear view mirror. That night, not so much.