Friends used to tease Greg whenever we had any spare time on a weekend, “Oh, does this mean you are going for a big, long walk?”

 
Apparently his nagging wife was known for pushing two things; hand washing and big, long walks.

 
The couple that walks together washes their hands together. Or something like that.

 
Greg always had an excuse. The big, long walk would get in the way of some serious, sitting around time.

 
His shoes were too tight, too loose, too soft, too hard, too wide, too narrow, his hands were too dirty.

You get the idea.

 
But yesterday, I felt like I got a Mother’s Day do-over.

 
Greg woke me up and asked, “Hey, would you like to go for a walk?”

 
I thought one of two things could be happening, 1) I’m still asleep, 2) He’s going to take me to some secluded area and bury my body and no one would ever think to look in that location because we had to go on a big, long walk to get there and everyone knows, Greg hates big, long walks.

 
We made it through our walk with only a few grumbles about his footwear and yes, he did ditch his shoes one block shy of making it all the way back to our house, walking in stocking feet, holding the shoes in one hand, nursing a blister with the other. It took dedication and a serious interest in making his wife happy to go at all.

 
When we arrived home, he tossed the shoes in the garbage, (as you do) customary after most big, long walks and we drank tea/coffee on our back porch and planned to walk again sometime this decade.

 
That’s all I need.