On multiple occasions in my life I have been chastised for the rapid speed at which I walk. Most of the time these complaints are issued from the mouths of short girls. Often times these short girls may be wearing skirts or high heels. In every instance these girls have attempted to walk alongside me for some significant distance. This is an exciting and rare occurrence that usually elicits thoughts like “Hey, I should buy this well-dressed short girl a ladder and marry her.” That kind of thinking usually leads to speculation as to the height of Belinda Carlisle and whether she would need a ladder. That kind of thinking leads to yet more excitement.
It should be noted that rarely do I get this excited with tall girls. Tall girls usually fall into one of two categories: models and girls that can beat me up. I try and stay away from girls that can beat me up. The models are very proficient at staying away from me.
So I listen to the complaints of the previously mentioned short girls (who are not models and could not beat me up) and even though I could beat them up, I decide to take a pacifist stance and instead try to walk slowly. It is at this point that I reach the following conclusion:
Guys who are 6’4 can’t walk slowly.
In order for me to travel at the walking pace of short girls my activity can no longer be described as walking. Rather, it involves me beginning the process of walking, stopping, counting to four and then beginning the process again. I have absurdly long legs! They want to run free! They can’t progress forward in 4-inch intervals! Heck, on long staircases I’ve got to go two steps at a time or else my legs will atrophy. Do you ever see clowns on stilts just standing perfectly still? No. They’ve got to keep moving or they’ll fall over. I’ve tried strolling, ambling, and even an occasional mosey and each one has gotten me a nice face-full of pavement. I’m like that clown. Worst of all, I’m scared of clowns. Not only am I frowning on the inside, I’m peeing my pants.
So please do not take offense if it seems that I refuse to walk slow enough. Especially don’t take offense if you’re pretty. Take comfort in knowing that if you are pretty I am doing everything in my power to try and walk slow so that I may breathe in your delightful pheromones as we walk. And if I still walk too fast it’s probably because I’m rushing off to buy a ladder. Probably one with little wheely things on the legs. You know, for mobility. And then we’ll get married and everything’ll be all good till I’m expected to dance at the wedding. Dancing’s a whole new can of worms. Fake worms that shoot out of the can and surprise you. Because I’m a clown. A sad, sad clown.