John Wilmes
In my thirty-first year, what I looked forward to more than anything were my walks. My wife did not know about them. On these walks, I would get McDonald’s—often a shameful amount, double-digit McNuggets and multiple sandwiches. I would take laps around the neighborhood and, while walking, eat it all secretly. The dexterity, the downright athleticism required to do this with my robust pace was considerable. And here we have to add in that I would perversely construct my laps so to pass by our house during them, adding extra levels of hiding complication to the routine. My ingenuity was pushed to impressive heights by the goals and restrictions of my secret McDonald’s exercise; my left forearm grew much stronger over months of doing this, it being so often a tensed narrow table I put all my food on and kept balanced amidst high walking speeds. I was also required to skillfully hold a coat over this mobile dining structure, as cover, when I passed by our home.
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