Working Title: Maybe it shouldn’t be allowed for someone to write so many words about such little time.

Here’s the thing. I don’t know if you can really, honestly infer this from any photos you’ve ever seen of me or if it will come as a great shock (only if you’re blind): I am not an athlete.

Let’s be entirely truthful here: I am not a walker. Neither leisure or necessity.

Let’s be painfully aware of how lazy Ashley is. I used to live at 159 West 200 North. Using the ingenious grid system, you’ll see that it’s really not very far from work. Using your vast knowledge of Salt Lake City (or going by my assessment), you’ll also know it would be idiotic to drive the route daily.

You’ll also be appalled to know that I used to work at 35 North West Temple. I will not note that location out of my loathing of my very existence. Also because then you will sue me. Because people this stupid shouldn’t be allowed to own cars.

Anyway, today the guys at work wanted to go out to lunch and because I was in the room when they started making plans, I was begrudgingly asked along (also because I keep whining that they always invite me after I have plans) and also asked to make a decision on location and approximate time of departure.

Jane, who does not count as a girl—not because she is not womanly, because she is, but because I am a girl and I have legs 1/17 the length of hers—suggested the Indian Market somethingorother “within walking distance” on D Street.

And because I am an ungrateful pip of a child and was not satisfied with the menu, I decided to veto with the approval and encouragement of the director and instead designate a lunchtime blessing of savory deliciousness at Sawadee, a â??Deserves a â??Utahâ??s Bestâ?? for Best Thai, hands down but donâ??t tell anyone because I want it to stay specialâ? authentic Thai restaurant Camille recommended over the weekend.

I mentioned it to the other guys who said, “Oh, ok.” All of them. In unison. Bryce asked where it was and I told him the address—1.2 miles to the east of our office. He said his preference would be to walk. Of course, I thought. Walking! Yay! Walking is fun! I walk with Ethel! Ethel likes to walk! Ethel likes beer! Lunch=beer!

Oh stop. I’m as sober as David Letterman. When he hasn’t been drinking.

I started out with great enthusiasm and little to prove, determined to make the 1.2 miles a negligible distance, though I knew I was in trouble, if only for the fact that I had, at the most, three doses of Albuterol left in the white inhaler in my maroon paisley purse, and my lungs have been acting awfully snotty lately. They’re too good to inhale.

They were the first culprits. We were on our way up a hill, passed a man with a lit cigarette and Mark thought it necessary and cordial to discuss my family life at that very moment. As did I, except for the whole breathing and talking part. This is where my theory that we’d all be better off if we as people and at young ages were required to take maybe 7 years of American Sign Language in elementary/secondary school and then take at least one ASL-only course the rest of our time in school—because SOMETIMES TALKING JUST GETS IN THE WAY OF COMMUNICATION—would come in handy.

I got a good puff from the MDI—or as I like to call it, a sweet drag off my joint of life—and moved on in my state of increasing awareness of the difficulty of the walk closing in around me. Not quickly, not inducing panic quite yet. Just realizing that the walls may or may not be closing in on me, but there’s still plenty of room to laze around, so let me nap—unless maybe, wait, are the walls moving? Really, don’t screw with me.

Then my shins started hurting. And while that was uncomfortable, I would have traded quite quickly for the numbness that quickly followed.

I don’t know who of my servants chose my shoes this morning, but whoever she is, she’s fired. They are an old pair of shoes. I’ve had them since the summer of 2003 and they’re a pair I used to wear daily until the clasps on either side of the mini-Mary Jane-like straps broke … leaving the shoe feeling a size or two too large.

That’s fine, the self told me. I’ll just take off my shoes. And walk in my tights. Because walking in a shiny skirt with a bunch of really huge men and an inhaler in a grip tighter than Dr. House’s on Vicodin just wasn’t enough to single me out.

The shoe removal seemed to be not such a great idea. Because my shins were so numb, something about the muscles contracting and writhing in rebellion made my gait ridiculously reminiscent of polio-stricken agony. Not that I would ever jest about such a thing, but what I felt was actually quite disconcerting. I couldn’t walk in a normal way. And it was beyond discomfort and embarrassment … it was just weirdly frightening.

But back to the sarcasm.

All I could think besides prayers for my very soul and my ability to continue walking without a limp later in my life was, â??Camille better be right about this damn restaurant.â?

In some strange turn of events—and really, I did it—we somehow walked through the doors of the restaurant with the life of breath still within my soul. The decor was lovely and as the men discerned, authentic. George and Bryce, who kindly walked EXTREMELY, UTTERLY, RIDICULOUSLY slowly with me for the past few minutes and who only teased me a little about how the food had better be good because Wow, you little asthmatics should be fired, made certain points to verbalize how impressed they were with the ambience.

Heavens to BETSY AND HER SISTER LOLA, that food was good.

I can’t even fathom the beauty of the place the person who invented peanut sauce dressing has in heaven. Because it is definitely goldenly pearly shinily lovely.

Everyone loved it and praised me and gave me a raise.

Then we walked back and that was that. Good story, eh?

This week, I had my first experience with Yerba Mate (”mah-tay”). This sounds like something maybe I should be confessing to the bishop. It isn’t, really. But it is something to confess to the Internet.

The wonderful men with whom I now work (at the BFJ) and associate (and call Squishy and they are mine and they are my squishy) are from varied backgrounds with varied experiences in varied situations in varied years for varied reasons. Verily, verily I say unto you.

Tuesday, BFB (Big Friendly Boss) stopped by my desk and said, “We’re going to have a mate party at Thursday’s staff meeting. Please email everyone. They’re going to need bombillas [bulb-shaped motions with hands] and equipment.” This is where my eyes got huge and I gave the, “DUDE quit it with your world experience because hello, I am from Georgia. GEORGIA I SAY. Where they know okra. And fried chicken. Which do not require BOMBILLAS,” look. He smiled and told me to look it up but also to email everyone.

Also, who else thinks “mate party” and “bombillas” sounds vaguely drug-related? Also, who else thinks that it’s not “vaguely” but mostly “obviously.”

The mate party went well, in fact, and it’s surprising how a three-hour-long meeting isn’t so bad when you’re quite under the influence. Oh, I’m kidding. That wasn’t the mate, it was the three Diet Pepsis I’d had in the half hour just prior to my arrival at the meeting. Also, who doesn’t love Lithium?

I looked it up and what do you know? The Guarani Indians “introduced to the world” the panacea to all life’s aches and troubles and infractions and parking violations. Why, I’d be surprised if Yerba Mate didn’t already have my taxes prepared and oil changed.

I love working with men. I love that they are smart and self-sufficient men who have experiences and skills that make them interesting and aware of themselves and the world. I’m in love with my job and I am in awe of the blessing it is. Because blessings are the best and we all have so many. Amen.