hottie Back in 1977 I took part in a charity walk to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis. Here I am in all my glory on the day of the event. Let’s set aside the outfit for a moment. In fact, let’s set it aside all together, because it’s hideous and scary and it makes me sad.

Seriously, stop looking at it.

OK. So prior to “The Walk,” as it was known around town, I dutifully knocked on neighbors’ doors asking for donations. I gave them my spiel that I planned to walk the entire route and asked if they’d make a pledge of some increment, say $.50 per mile. Even a pledge of $.20 a mile was something I was glad to record on my pledge sheet.

The course was a whopping 26 miles, a damn lot of miles for a 12 year old, now that I think about it. Some neighbors doubted I could finish.

I told all the nice donors that I’d come back to collect their money a day or two after I completed the walk. I would get a card punched every couple of miles to show that I’d hit all the checkpoints and they’d know how much to pay me.

I remember the walk being a blast. Motoring along with my friends and a mass of other people, it had a party feel to it. But my body really took a beating. We walked at a decent pace, didn’t kill ourselves, but considering how many miles I logged I was one sloppy mess at the finish line.

The walk route ended at a local high school. As soon as I got there, I headed straight for the ladies room for a potty break and to make an attempt to look human again.

The bathroom was jam-packed with other walkers, so there wasn’t room or time to freshen up much. I just wanted to get out, get home and take a shower.

I called my brother to come pick me up and when I got home, I made a beeline to my pledge sheet to calculate how much money I raised and to staple my punch card to it.

Reaching into my light blue, white-belted hot pants with apparently very shallow pockets, I pulled out nothing.

The card wasn’t there.

The card that showed I had slogged 26 miles in the hot sun. The card that would explain to anyone who asked why my feet had blown up to twice their size. The card I carried so far and so long and was so careful to get punched at the checkpoints.

Gone.

Fini.

I’d either dropped it after the last checkpoint, lost it somewhere in that mess of a bathroom, or anywhere else I’d been on the school grounds.

I had no way to prove to all my donors that I’d done something incredible that day. Something even I wasn’t sure I could do. No way to collect money for a good cause. Not. One. Penny.

We drove back to the high school to look for it wherever I remembered I’d been. But nothing.

I resigned myself to the fact that I was careless and stupid and an idiot. I wasn’t right for days. I decided I didn’t want to revisit the donors and try to explain with pleading eyes that “Really! I swear I walked the whole thing!”

I blame my outfit. Evil from head to toe. Really, one look at it and I should have known I’d be doomed from the start.

Stumble it!