Commentary by Dick Wolfsie

My wife walks faster than I do. What makes this so humiliating is that I have always been a good athlete, but Mary Ellen hated sports. When my wife tries to run, she doesn’t bend her legs at the knees and she ends up looking like a soldier doing a goose-step on too much coffee.

No, she can’t run. But boy, can she walk.

And I can’t figure out why she walks faster. Let’s see … her legs are longer than mine. And wait, she moves them back and forth faster than I do. Okay, I just figured it out. But this doesn’t make me feel any better.

The great irony is that I was attracted to my wife 35 years ago because of her long, slender legs. This is exactly how men get themselves in trouble. When I saw those lovely limbs, my mind turned to romance, but I should have realized that she’d be walking faster than me for the next 40 years. I knew I was going to marry a woman who was smarter. But faster? That wasn’t the plan.

In fact, in high school and college, I prided myself on my speed. And I never had anything to do with girls who were fast. I probably should rewrite that sentence.

Sometimes, just to feel loved and wanted, when we are walking I hide behind a tree to see if my wife will look back to see where I am. Out on a hiking trail, this is okay, but in a residential neighborhood, men behind trees are frowned upon. When you are telling your story to a police officer and he keeps using the word “lurking,” you have a great deal of explaining to do.

Now, when my wife and I walk, we go in different directions around our neighborhood circle. No matter how slow I walk, we always pass each other at exactly the same time.

I know that sounds stupid. But don’t try to explain it to me. You know how slow I am.