I don’t know what the Proclaimers were thinking when they wrote their hit song “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” but I would not walk 500 miles for anyone. That would be like walking from here to Pittsburgh, a feat Dante definitely categorized as the seventh layer of Hell. Perhaps I’m both incredibly self-centered and lazy, or, perhaps, walking 500 miles is an unreasonable amount to ask of anyone.
All I can say is that the Proclaimers must have really amazing calves after hiking all those miles. They definitely resemble Classical Greek sculptures under their corduroys. Don’t be fooled by their thickly-framed glasses and turtleneck sweaters reminiscent of an office holiday party, Charlie and Craig have legs that could kick through brick. Infact, I hear that Craig’s thighs are so Mr. Incredible-level buff that if you were to throw a ceramic vase at them, it would shatter on impact.
I respect the melodically-inclined brothers and their thick fabrics, but I would never join them on their escapades through the wilderness.
I hope they packed plenty of food for the trip. I hope Charlie has a backpack full of saltines, peanut butter, and wet wipes. Maybe they’ll ladle water from streams into their mouths. I hope they avoid bacterial infection. I hear dysentery is out of style.
They’ll probably furiously examine their paper maps to see if they’re headed on the right path, periodically throwing leaves in the air to see what direction the wind is blowing. They’ll itch their rashy necks under their turtleneck sweaters and boast about their unbridled love and dedication, all the while harboring secret remorse over their muddied loafers.
I certainly admire their commitment, but I would never choose to emulate it. Maybe I’d bake cookies for someone or write them a thoughtful birthday card, but walking 500 miles for anyone is quite frankly out of the question. Charlie and Craig can just go ahead and hike on their own, because I’m staying at home where I don’t have to worry about mountains or setting up tents in the woods or shitting along the highway.
Perhaps their lyrics should have been “I will defecate beside the interstate for you,” because what significant other wouldn’t want to hear that?
I think that 2 miles is probably my limit for walking in general. Maybe 2.5. I would maybe walk 2.5 miles for someone if I was feeling particularly sentimental and ice cream was promised at that end. But the minute 3 miles is proposed, I’m sitting on a rock and refusing to move. A really buff lumberjack will have to give me a piggyback, because I don’t intend on budging.
I would not even walk 500 miles for Meryl Streep. If Meryl Streep wrote me a letter promising a rendezvous on a romantic moonlit bridge 500 miles from here, I would pleasantly decline. Even if Queen Victoria was miraculously resurrected and eager to shake my hand at a destination 500 miles away, I would not even consider making the trek. If the Genie from Aladdin himself promised me 3 miraculous wishes as a prize for my weary limbs, I would simply have to turn him down, because, you see, I would not walk 500 miles for anyone.
How can the Proclaimers even begin to allege that they would walk that far? Charlie and Craig not only have thick sweaters, but they also have thick promises. They’ve set unrealistic standards, standards which I certainly don’t intend on replicating, and standards that I believe should never be imitated, even if you have the body of a soccer player and the heart of Mother Teresa.
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