Stumbling

This past weekend Mike, our friend Matt, and I spent Saturday hanging out. We biked out to Matt's place, walked to the theater to see the matinee of the Simpsons movie, biked home, walked to Brady Street so we could wander around the street festival there, walked to Downer Avenue to see the bike race, and then walked home.

Now, all of the walking from Brady Street on was done in my strappy sandals. These sandals are great for walking a few blocks, but they start to kill your feet after more than a mile or so. By the time we were headed home from Downer Avenue we had walked about two miles already, and my feet were rapidly blistering. I started to hobble, and then stagger, and then cling to Mike as I shuffled along. Mike put his arm around me and I hung on his shoulder as I hobbled along, trying to put as little weight on my feet as possible. I made a few attempts to hop onto his back for a piggyback ride, but when that failed I giggled and went back to hobbling.

As we made our way up Oakland Avenue I realized that not only did it look like I was stumbling drunk at 7 PM, we were also passing by the church and the house where our priest lives. Now, since our congregation was huge I didn't think he'd recognize me even if he was looking out the window, but the idea that he spotted me and assumed I was drunk was highly amusing anyway.

"He's probably got his list of parishoners," I said, "and he put a check next to my name. 'I'll see her in confession next weekend.'"

I don't know if priests or nuns actually do that, but if they do, and someone goes to my church, let them know that I wasn't really drunk. I was just experiencing massive blisters.