Now, y’all know I don’t Jazzercise on Saturdays. We have a rule in our house that, as far as it’s possible, we’ll spend Saturdays together. And, even though I have assured him that other red blooded American men–other husbands who have a heart-felt desire to share things with their wives–do occasionally Jazzercise, he balks like a mule. So we walk. Sometimes in the park, sometimes around the neighborhood, or, like this morning, along the sidewalks in downtown Greer. Walking with Jim is problematic for me because his legs are eleven feet long. I try to walk at my own pace, but he gets cranky because he’s half a mile ahead and can’t talk to me. He commences to coach me. I do not find this particularly helpful. His coaching goes something like this: “What are you doing back there? I thought you wanted to exercise, not stroll around and window shop. You’re not getting your heart rate up.” Then he’ll grab my arm and pull me down the street. In order to keep from stumbling, I retrieve my arm and jog alongside him while he walks. I don’t like to jog. I find that it makes me sweat, which I do not care for. Not only that, it causes various parts of my anatomy to bounce uncomfortably. I am of the opinion that this bouncing can cause said parts to sag. Jogging makes me cranky, so I don’t do it for very long. I slow down to a fast walk, fall behind, and the whole thing starts all over with the coaching. This morning, in an entertaining variation, he suggested I Jazzercise down the street–even sang a few bars of “Can’t Touch This” for me. Because neither of us is interested in fighting, we keep the complaining at the good-natured ribbing level. But I know a few couples that would wind up sleeping in separate rooms for a night or two after that kind of workout. I don’t know about y’all, but I think marriage requires a sense of humor. Now that I think about it, that really ought to be somewhere in the vows. “I promise to love, honor, obey and laugh with.” I think I’ll put that in the suggestion box!