There is this man I see when I drive to work. Not every morning, only sometimes. He is tall, handsome, impeccably dressed, and always wears these brown, high-end dress shoes with black laces done in perfect bows.

What strikes me about him is the way he walks. He has one leg that is bent at some strange angle, the other shorter and twisted outwards. As he ascends the hill near Sussex and Rideau, the word that pops into my head is “hopalong” based on the pop of his gait each time he takes a step forward with the longer leg.

To be fair, that is not the right word to describe him, because someone so elegant and determined should never have the moniker “hop” attached to him. He strides out, up the sidewalk, expensive suit sometimes fluttering out in the breeze, his pace outstripping some of the “normal” striding folks peppered along the street around him.

I admire him very much. No clue who he is, what he does, or where he is going at such a clip. But, he never looks upset. A grimace never crosses his face. His normal is what makes me smile and have a mental happy moment when I see him. If he can kick ass with what life has dealt him, what’s my excuse?

He motivates me.




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