You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself.

My dad has started to measure his life in steps.

Apparently, at a recent doctor's visit, the doctor handed him a pedometer and told him he had to walk a certain amount of steps per day in order to keep in shape. The guy eats as many sweets as his dead diabetic father ate, almost as many sweets as me, so I think this is a pretty good idea.

And because it's my dad's project, it has become everyone's project. Not that he makes us walk with him, but in that he must tilt up the pedometer from his belt and update us every now and again about how many steps he's walked today, how many miles that is, how many times he's gone above and beyond and over the limit that even the doctor has set.

He's certainly walking more. All he needed was someone to tell him he could outdo himself again by measuring his steps. Although, I think his pedometer is broken, to be honest with you, because he was gone for about an hour and claimed that he walked five miles. He walked to church on Good Friday, arms swinging away, swish-swishing with his turquoise windbreaker, and this morning, when my mom, Travis and I were out walking the dog, we ran into my dad, out working up his numbers so he could reach his goal for the day. Why the family was on two separate walks, I'm not really sure. But I do wonder what my dad is thinking about on those walks. He's thinking about something--I mean, he doesn't have any music playing in his ears, and he's not talking to anyone (he doesn't have any walking-buddies, although I did pass an old man out walking while I was out running on Saturday--he was wearing jeans and a windbreaker and carrying two pound weights in each hand and lifting them with each step--and I thought of suggesting to my dad that he and this stranger walk together, especially because he lived in a cul-de-sac and they now had something in common and could discuss cul-de-sac livin' in Albertville together). If my dad's like me, deep thought makes the workout pass by much faster, else you have to concentrate on the pain shooting up your shins or the fire in the balls of your feet.

Of course, I overheard him talking about his walks earlier today, and he mentioned that on his route he stops at a friend's house for a beer every now and again. I gotta stop doing that though, he told my sister, I start walking again, and I get all stiff. Gotta just keep going. Can't stop in the middle. Hmm.

Happy Easter, anyway. I didn't go to church, am feeling guilty, have eaten literally pounds and pounds of candy, and have had two thoughts today:

1) Does anyone else eat those whopper robin eggs by first licking the outside so the color in transferable and then sort of paint it on their lips like a shade of emo lipstick? ...uh, yeah, me either, I was just wondering if you did, because I totally don't do that.

2) The Albertville Culver's had one of those signs where you move the black letters around to spell ads and messages, and this weekend it said "CLOSED ON EASTER SUNDAY" on both sides of it. Except somebody rearranged some letters around so it said "EAT COC ON EASTER SUNDAY." Am I going to hell for laughing at that?