Whereby I become a meme.

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This is a true story.

The other day, I was walking our puppy with CD Rogue. Don’t get too excited. I haven’t taken a walk in two days. Anyway, I’m on break, and that means I barely shower. Putting on a bra is the height of accomplishment. And I learned something about myself: if I don’t put on under garments, I am incapacitated. I can’t move. No bras are my kryptonite.

But I digress.

Anyway, I’m walking, and bundled up with the hodgepodge of coats, gloves, scarves, etc. at my disposal. Looking stylish is not my goal. Nor is, apparently, minding my head wear. So yes, I donned the Helm of the Fierce Bison.

My coat is my black velvet swing coat, which on good days I look like a beautiful enchantress, but on bad days, like this particular day, I look like a lost and elderly black bear who’s out of Pall Mall cigarettes and scotch. My scarf is the Hello Kitty menagerie, and an over-wrap to add a certain panache to the whole ensemble. Striding as a Guardian of the Walk, the Helm of the Fierce Bison.

As we’re rounding the last bend, the last quarter stretch before home, there is a stop sign that affects one lane: all the other lanes have free pass to go, so naturally we’re always really careful at this corner. A red Subaru stops, and we’re thinking it’s waiting for us to pass.

We wait, and wait.

And then CD Rogue says, “She was taking a picture of you.”

That. Happened.

So somewhere out in the digital world is the most unflattering photograph of a middle-aged lady, or bear, who appreciates Hello Kitty scarves and animal millinery.

Be kind in your comments. I can take it. I have a bra on.