South walkers accomplish truly amazing feets
Only those who have experienced intense pain, followed by luxurious relief, can appreciate my delight when I realized during the May 7 Hunger Hike that I was hopelessly in love with Dr. Scholl. But my bliss was twofold: my passions were aroused by the Foot Powder King and Dr. Ben-Gay.
I have calmed my heart palpitations sufficiently, however, to look back with some degree of sanity upon that day nearly two weeks ago. My condition was far to the contrary then, as were those of my partners-in-pain, Lynne LJ and Lynne P.
Perhaps my most vivid memory of the walk (coupled with the pungent aroma of soggy sneakers) is the sight of Umbrellas on Parade down Skokie Blvd. The sprouting of 400 mushroom-shaped bumbershoots is a vision not be be missed by any funster.
After a few hours of manically clutching her belongings to protect them from the mulch of a once-clean curb, Miss P came to a sad realization: "My hands won't work!" she announced to anyone who would listed to here. Figuring that she was a tragic young victim of arthritis, I started groping for some Anacin.
The awful truth then hit Miss LJ and me that we were also among the afflicted as we began a life-and-death struggle to peel an orange. The song "Jungle Fever" suddenly became "Swamp Fever" as we crooned "Ahh, I can peel it."
Obvious choices for my 1972 Hate List are Nancy Sinatra for her immortal rendition of "These Boots are Made for Walkin'," and the thoughtless disc jockey who insisted on playing it. Our nerves were near the breaking point, we also were in no state of mind or body to appreciate the uproarious humor involved in watching contestants vie for the coveted "Muckiest Jeans of the Year" award.
As was the case last year, I was thrilled to no end at the fabulous collection of checkpoint stamps I received. (As should be apparent to all, not much is required to impress me on a soupy Sunday.) One thing is self-evident, however: nothing can compare with the luscious tones of turquoise, lilac, vermilion, and basic black I acquired.
Doggedly following the trail of foot powder up Sheridan Road we Three Musketeers kept our thoughts on the marvels of once again viewing the awe-inspiring Old Orchard shopping center. Little things do mean a lot on such days, and here is a sample of spirit-builders.
1. The sight of Lynne LJ, that always chic SC secretary, as the Nomadic Fool, strikingly wrapped in a lovely gray blanket with a mix-or-match sweater entwined about her head.
2. The battle to decipher my garbled speech as my mind slowly deteriorated from fatigue.
3. The faint whimpers of "Mommy, where are you?" pathetically uttered by Lynne P.
Pain fades a hundred times faster than memories, though. We consider ourselves fortunate and honored to have participated in such a cause.