"Stepping Outside"

Since I am no longer driving, my life has substantially changed.

The nearby places I once drove to – and in L.A. that’s what we do – I now walk to.

It feels strange.  Like I have dropped down the “Transportational Ladder” to the bottommost rung, plummeting past scooters, bicycles, skateboards…

I am a “Pedal Pedestrian”, if that’s not redundant, and it is likely it is.

I think about this.  Giving up driving, I move at the same pace as the “Earliest People on Earth”, nodding to passing Neanderthals as I go.

“Watch out for that ‘stoop.’  You’re looking at serious back problems down the road.”

They would not understand, but I would say it regardless, just to be nice.  We’re in the same “club” after all, lumpingly categorized as,

“Foot Traffic.”

There I am, leaving the outdoor “Farmer’s Market”, carrying a pound of almonds and a carton of “Harry’s Berries”, the sweetest strawberries they sell.  For almost twice as much as the sourer strawberries.  I don’t get that.  Don’t all local strawberries grow in the same ground?  It’s like one patch has induced “augmented sugar.”

Anyway, I begin “hoofing it” home, carrying my purchases.  No onerous burden.  Even though there’s a hill.  If it’s too much, I can always eat some of the strawberries.

Entering the embarking sidewalk, I see a large sign, affixed to a nearby trash bin.  It says,

“2/3 Of People Hit Are In Crosswalks.”

I read a sign on the other side of the trash bin, which says,

“Only Half of People Survive When Hit Over 30 MPH.”

Suddenly, I am thinking, "This 'walking' is dangerous!

I don’t want to know any of these things.  I need encouragement during my “ambulatory transition.”

“Daily Walking Is Good for the Heart.”

Instead I get variations of,

“Crossing the Thoroughfare, We Don’t Care for Your Chances.”

The first sign is almost an endorsement of jaywalking.  How much worse are the odds than using the crosswalks?  They might even be better!

The second sign is totally beyond my control.  What do I do, make sure the approaching cars are going slower than “Thirty” so I can live after they hit me?  By the way, this “Slow Down” warning, clearly intended for drivers, adorns the south-facing side of the trash bin, meaning that driving “South”, you won’t see it, and driving “North”, it is too far away.  It’s like “Traffic Safety” doesn’t actually care.

“Hey, we posted the placards.  Now it’s out of our hands.”

Stuff like this speaks to not leaving the house.  Or carrying a cell phone when you do, so they can readily contact your “Loved Ones” after you’re nailed.

The thing is, if I’d stayed put, I’d have missed this.

I am finishing my stroll by the beach, where the invisible Mariachi band that performs only for me sang,

“We’re going to love you forever,

We’re really glad you’re alive.

We’re going to always be with you,

And we don't care if you drive.”

The early morning is unseasonably – for summer – cloudy and brisk, and simultaneously, incongruously humid.  I am rounding the corner on the last “leg” of my walk when a gruff East Coast-accented stranger unloading a truck says, like we’re old friends,

“Great weather, ‘uh?”

And before I say, “Not yet”, he grumpily adds,

“I think the Russians or Chinese must be ‘”f-in’” with the weather.  It’s like April!

Raising his voice, as I head down the street,

“April!”

I had a big smile all the way to my door.

For more reasons than one.

The whole rest of the way back:

No crosswalks.  Small intersections.

I had a good chance of making it.