Boy, did I wake up in a bad mood last sunday morning. Generally, I'm a pretty positive person, but that morning I definitely had my nose out of joint or got up on the wrong side of bed or was out of sorts. Whatever overly used clich you want to tack on to it, I was grumpy.

I knew why, too. It had been almost two weeks since I'd had my therapy. No, I'm not talking about going lying on some doctor's couch, although I wouldn't hesitate a second to do that if I was really in a tangle. No, I'm talking about my regular session with the Walky-Talkers. That's what I call the group of women I've been walking with around Nubbins town park for going on six years now. The park is the rectangle at the center of our little town, with four streets making up the sides. Inside the rectangle you'll find Nubbins City Hall, the post office, the library, a few ancient trees, and a field used for soccer games and Easter egg hunts. The rest of the town shoots out in various directions from the center. There's a drug store, a grocery store, a cafe, and a few other businesses, but for the most part, Nubbins is a residential town, with the park as the central hub.

The Walky-Talkers can include any of our regular group of six women - whoever happens to show up on a Sunday or Thursday evening at 5:00. We say it's for the exercise, but we all know it's really about airing our troubles and cleaning the cobwebs out of our psyches. Like I said: therapy.

But I had a bad cold and some engagements that had kept me from walking for a couple of weeks, and that hiatus was definitely taking its toll. Fortunately, I could get my fix that afternoon.

Of the five ladies in addition to me who walk regularly, Grace Daniels is the oldest at 68. She still works part-time at the library where she learns everything about everyone in town. She's never been married and is as sweet as sugar, never gossiping, unless absolutely necessary. I have no idea how old Myrtle Allgood is because she won't say. I'm guessing 64, but don't tell her I said that. She's a widow with three grown kids and sells real estate. She gets a new hairdo every other month and accessorizes extensively, even on our walks. My young neighbors call her the Bling Queen.

The youngest member of our group is Pepper VanDyke, whose real name is Clarissa, but don't call her that unless you want to get her worked up. She's tall with red, curly hair she can't quite manage, and is a social worker over in Taylorsville. She has a high-maintenance husband and two wild teenage boys. That woman has a lot on her plate.

Pearl Thompson seems the opposite. She's a pastel watercolor artist, and weeds don't dare show their green heads in her garden. Her husband adores her, and she has a successful daughter and three gorgeous grandchildren. Her sandy hair never looks out of place, her outfits are all color-coordinated, and she never seems to break a sweat on our walks. We love her in spite of this because her disposition is just so sunny and calm, you can't help it.

Finally, there's Roberta. Roberta took early retirement from her job as the middle school counselor a few years after her husband ran off with his secretary. She visits her two kids and generally has a much happier life now than she used to. She has dyed auburn hair, a barrel chest, and sculpted calves, and she calls 'em like she sees 'em. That's why I like her - most of the time.

It may seem strange that such a varied group of women could become such good friends and sacred confidantes, but that's what happens when you walk around town square twice a week for six years. This Sunday was no different. As soon as I got there, Pearl asked me, "What's wrong, Ida Mae?"

"Yes, you look troubled," Grace agreed.

Forget trying to conceal anything from this group. "I have no idea," I said. "I just haven't felt like myself for the past few days."

"When was the last time you talked to Merl?" Roberta asked, not breaking her stride.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, my voice a little higher than I'd intended. Roberta just looked at me and kept on walking, her elbows pumping at her side. "Okay, okay," I sighed after a minute. "You're right, as usual. He hasn't called me in a few days, and I hate to admit it, but it's bothering me."

"Have you called him?" Roberta asked, pumping away.

"Not exactly," I said, sheepishly. "I was waiting to see if he'd call me."

"For heaven's sake, Ida Mae, you're not in middle school," Roberta said. "Just pick up the phone and call him."

And that's what I did as soon as I got home. Turns out he didn't want to bother me while I was sick and was waiting for me to let him know I was better.

I'm telling you, sometimes a walk around the block with good friends is as good as therapy. Plus, it's a lot cheaper.

")