Best Laid Plans

Perhaps I’ve mentioned running a marathon before. It’s true. Back in the winter of 1980, my neighbor, running buddy, and prominent socialite Argumento deMinimus, the Harvard-Bred Lawyer and I had trained for months to run the Arkansas Marathon in Booneville, Arkansas. We were primed and ready, along with neighbor and friend John Woodruff, to tackle the 26.2188 of magnificent Arkansas scenery in March of that year.

As I sit this morning listening to un-forecasted torrential downpours ruining my daily plans, I remember what happened to Argumento and me the day before the marathon was to occur.

A winter storm, threatened, the worst in years, that’s all it was. Snow, sleet, ice, heavy winds, and a temperature of 15 degrees was all we had in store. Well, phooey.

“Not so fast,” Argumento argued amicably but assertively. One of the three weather reports posited the picayune possibility of the precipitation’s passing the proximity. We could, both military veterans, withstand the cold and misery if only the roads were clear to the venue.

I developed a dream of deliverance. “Let’s,” I said, “drive to Russellville, Arkansas. There’s a nice Ramada Inn on I-40 where we can stay. If the snows come, the freeway should get us back. If the snows don’t, it’s a fairly short hop from Russellville, across the river, over the mountains, to Booneville.

Astonishingly, Argumento agreed assiduously.

Leaving Little Rock late in the day, we wisely went to the westernmost “big-box” to buy additional protective wear.

Pantyhose was what we wanted … warm pantyhose.

I immediately settled on a style termed “Big Momma Hosiery." Argumento settled for a more traditional pair. Satisfied, we skedaddled.

That night, as we waited for the weather’s wearisome wanderings, we worried about the fit of our legwear.

“Let’s try them on,” I suggested.

“Let’s.”

Now we would never smoke dope or anything like that, but those who do tell me that marijuana madness makes men monumentally paranoid at times. Such a feeling occurred to me at that moment. What if the door to the motel room crashed open, flak-jacket agents rushed in with guns drawn, and said security sentinels saw such a scene?

What if, they saw two men from a city over an hour away from Russellville in a motel room trying on pantyhose? One was a typical sociopathic Vietnam vet, so no surprise there. The other was a well-respected attorney from a prominent Arkansas family with a “magna cum laude degree from an Ivy-League school.

“Pantyhosed couple caught careening casually in a Russellville Roost.” There was a newspaper editor, a real nutcase (yes, I repeat myself) named John Robert Starr in Little Rock who delighted in persecuting the innocent and aggrandizing the mendacious. (It was he who helped elevate Tommy Robinson to rock-star status in our state). I could only imagine what fun he would have to the shame and horror of Argumento’s family and business associates. My Sainted Mother wouldn't have enjoyed it much either. Daddy would have thought, but not said, "Figures." Our spouses would have simply said, "Oh, no ... what this time? Where's the paper?"

“Training for a footrace, they claim.” I could have written John Robert’s piece for him next day.

But back briefly to the motel. “Mine fit,” I said, hastily pulling them off. “How’s yours?”

“Oh,” he said, “I think I have a run in one leg, but maybe no one will notice. Do you think they make me look skinny?”

Looking lovingly leeward to long, long ago, I leave you laughing, dear laudatory listener.

Do what?