Walking in 2017

When I walk, I puff my chest out like a twelve year old girl with very high expectations and a very dim present.
When I walk, I hold my arms like I am a Lego man left in the car ten seconds too long.
When I walk, it appears that there is an invisible garbage can around my middle, filled nearly to overflowing, that I am desperately trying to carry without spilling.
When I walk, my feet flail as though they are tentacles in search of an invisible staircase.
When I walk, my feet tap left to right as though it is 1953 and I have just discovered rock and roll.
When I walk, my feet twist and drag as though I had gone to more than one Tango lesson.
When I walk, my face is contorted into an uncanny valley of blankness.
When I walk, my neck somehow stretches and widens.
When I walk, my shoulders advance and retreat like glaciers, leaving moraines on my shirt.
When I walk, my right shoulder spins like a wheel on an off center axle.
When I walk, my whole body is strange, and tight, and twisted, and awkward, and disjointed, and jerky, and floppy, and stiff, and horrifying, and embarrassing.
But . . . all of these things, all of these awkward over compensations, all of these are necessary. I am building a body back up from next to nothing, and I am repairing problems going back to before my birth. So, it has to be at least a little bit amusing.
I walk a lot.