Simply Nauseating

I don't have anything earth shattering to report this morning. No giant steps. No long jumps into the Stepping Out hall of fame. The only thing I've stepped into is a pair of walking shoes.

I've mentioned before that morning walks with the husband are among my simple pleasures. I even mentioned that winter walks are my favorite walks of all. That's because I get to dress up like the Unibomber and walk incognito.

We haven't been doing much walking lately. 

I'd like to blame it on the Christmas busyness or the fact that I married a traveling man, but I can't. I'd also like to blame the fibro pain that seems to have settled in my feet of all places, but I can't do that either.

The plain truth is that the only legitimate way to combat fibromyalgia is to move through it. With fibro, less is more and more is less. The less you move, the more you hurt, and the more you move the less you hurt.

No, pain isn't the reason that I haven't been walking; it's the excuse. Laziness is the reason.

There. I said it.

So yesterday morning, I put on my walking shoes and limped out the door with my faithful companion at my side. Bet you think that's what this post is all about, don't you?

Well, it isn't.

It's about what happened after the walk. We were turning into the driveway, you see, when the husband looked up and said,

Looks like we missed an opportunity.  

And then, he pointed.

Can you see it?

It's mistletoe... Smack dab in the middle of our Bradford pear.  It had probably been there for months, but it was hiding under all the leafy stuff.

Now folks,  I know that the Christmas season is over, but mistletoe is mistletoe, and in my world every season is smooching season. So I planted myself under that Kissing Tree and gave him the face until he got the clue.

Stepping out has it privileges.

In fact, I enjoyed the privilege so much that I convinced him to walk again after dinner. We walked  this morning, too, and I have plans for a little blue hour stroll.

I'm convinced that my feet feel better already, and we still have one more morning before he leaves to go out of town.  At this rate, I'll be wearing stilettos by Valentine's Day.

That would be just about how long he's willing to leave the mistletoe undisturbed in the tree, too. He may be a romantic, but he's a left- brained romantic. Apparently, mistletoe is actually a parasite, and he thinks it ought to be whacked back before budding season.  He has  promised to leave just a little bit, though, if I promise to keep walking.

So there you have it:

Why Sir Lotsa Hair Kissed the Unibomber and Nauseated the Neighborhood.

Otherwise known as this week's

  simple pleasure.