I used to take road trips before high school with my mom and her parents. We drove all across Canada and through the northern states. I saw Mount Rushmore and Wall Drug. I already told you about that. Somewhere on those road trips, perhaps Saginaw, Michigan where it’s stuck at Christmas all year round, I pinched my first belt. I don’t know why. It was the only thing I ever remember shoplifting. I really can’t say what possessed me. But there it was. I had a belt. It was black on one side and brown on the t’other and had a buckle that was gold looking to begin with that twirled around. That hot belt got me through high school. Maybe even the first part of university.

The only other seriously moral infraction I remember was cheating on my multiplication tables in grade 5. Ok. That’s not true. I remember more. But still, in my hot and stuffy grade 5 portable, I cheated on my multiplication tables. I had made up a tiny chart and put it between my legs. I didn’t get caught. I wanted to get caught. When I got an A, I felt terrible.

I think I bought my second belt at a galleria a year or two into University. That belt has lasted me until now. Now, it’s true. I don’t really have any serious need for a belt. I only go out to walk Murphy, of course. But still, I can’t wear jeans, not even to walk my dog, without wearing a belt. That’s why jeans have belt loops.

I got my third belt today. Like my second belt, and quite unlike my first one, I paid for it. Or rather I paid my Fetcher who paid for it. It’s quite sharp. Now I don’t have to worry about the shoddiness of my belt when I walk my dog.

SS