Be careful how you strut your stuff

“What are those kids doing out? It’s not Hallowe’en yet!” I thought the other day as I spied two kids—one decked out as a witch and the other as Marie Antoinette—strutting down the street obviously on a mission.
Then it hit me it was just the diminutive Lou and her sidekick, Nettie, on their way to a Mad Hatter . . . er, Red Hatter celebration.
I reflected on strutting one’s stuff. I, for one, no longer strut. I saunter or shuffle now, particularly if it’s a little icy.
A full stride only happens on my way to the Bakery for my toast and coffee, or for an appointment with the walleye out on the river.
I do recall one strut a few years back in Florida when I was heading for the pool. Sucking in my gut, I strutted across the deck littered with firm, tanned bodies towards the diving board when a three-year-old’s proclamation brought me up short.
“Look at the old grandpa. He’s going to jump in the pool!” she shouted, drawing every eye to my hairy, wrinkled, withered, and now sagging physique.
Suitably deflated, I slowly lowered myself into the water and anonymity.
Larry suffered a similar embarrassment a few decades back when he took his then recent bride for a tour of his old stomping grounds in Thunder Bay.
“Who knows, maybe we’ll run into some of my old flames,” he quipped as he strutted towards the mall entrance with his party. His new bride, however, morphed into her intense green-eyed monster state at the very thought of running across one of hubby’s old flames.
But Larry was prepared for the encounter. His firm, then youthful, well-rounded buttocks were tightly encased in those new Turkish jeans. He preceded through the mall a few steps in front of his bride and her friends.
The high-stepping strut was on. Like a bull elk in rut, he surveyed the rest of the herd. Were there any more lovelies he could gather into his harem?
Sweetie maintained her distance and continued to glower until her friends began to snicker.
“What’s so funny?” she snapped, in no mood for levity until they pointed to the seam in the seat of his pants. It had opened from belt to crotch.
Those firm buttocks could not be constrained by a pair of cheap Turkish pants.
They undulated like a pair of pigs trying to get out of a sack. First one cheek, then the other peeked out barely constrained by his tighty-whities (I guess he had chosen that day not to wear his thong).
Instantly Sweetie’s mood levitated.
“What are you guys giggling about? C’mon, keep up,” Larry shot over his shoulder, glancing back while putting a little extra swing in his strut.
After a half-hour strut through the mall without encountering any old flames, they headed back out across the parking lot—the entourage in full giggle and Larry still in full strut.
“Anyone feel a draft? What are you guys still smirking about?” was Larry’s last query before discovering the cause of the mirth.
His closing comment, “All the way through the mall? And you didn’t say anything?
“What a bunch of sick puppies!”

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