I am walking the dog.

In the arbitrary division of labor at our house, walking the dog is normally my husband’s job. Not because it’s the manly thing to do. Not with our dog, at least.

There are few less manly sights than a 6’2″ hulk of a guy walking a 12-pound tippy-toeing terrier on a rainbow-colored leash. Fortunately, my husband’s yin and yang are in balance; he even eats quiche on occasion. Besides, I suspect he enjoys the adoring looks from college girls who honk as they drive by, pointing and mouthing through the window: “Omigod! Too cute!” For there is no better chick magnet than a cute little dog, even if you’re a middle-aged man.

It’s just that he usually beats me home from work and, as all dog owners know, after a long day of being cooped up in the house, canines aren’t exactly willing to sit quietly and watch you savor a dry martini.

I am walking the dog today because I need the exercise. I need fresh air and sunlight’s Vitamin D, which can prevent cancer according to the latest study. I need to lower my blood pressure. I guess you could say the dog is walking me.

But preparing for the journey is such a process!

First, there’s the change of clothes. Fortunately, dog walking attire is not subject to the laws of fashion, except maybe in Beverly Hills. Dogs don’t care what you wear. Leotard, tutu and cowboy boots? Fine. Just change and do it fast.

Then, proper shoes for going the distance.

Next, the accouterments: iPod. Check. Sunglasses. Check. Light jacket. Check. Cell phone (because the dog is getting old and might need 911 and ditto for me.) Check. Baggie. Check and double check. Now we’re ready.

The dog bolts through the door almost strangling himself in the process. We’ve traveled only a half block when he decides to stop and do his business. He has chosen the well-manicured yard of neighbors we know and like. (When I forget the baggie, I hope he picks the scruffier yards of neighbors we’ve never met.) He sniffs and sorts through the clippings of the freshly mowed lawn. It takes forever to find the perfect spot.

Suddenly, I don’t know how to act. Cars are driving by. People are staring. I take the baggie out of my pocket to show I’m prepared to do the right thing.

I glance in the dog’s direction but quickly look away. A guy needs his privacy, for crying out loud. But this is taking a lifetime in dog years!

More cars drive by. It’s the 5:30 p.m. rush.

I shrug and smile as if to say: Crazy dog doing his business!

Finally, he is done. Using a time-tested technique, I turn the baggie inside out creating a makeshift plastic mitten, collect the specimen, flip the bag outside in and close. Quick and clean.

Still, I now have a mile to go while carrying this unsightly Ziploc. Ladylike, it ain’t.

We sally forth and I experiment with ways to keep the lumpy baggie concealed from passersby. Inside hand, low and close to the body. Outside hand, underneath grip of the leash. I couldn’t feel more conspicuous if I were wearing a bikini.

We approach the turn, a small neighborhood shop with – eureka! – an outdoor waste receptacle! I happily make my deposit and the two of us begin to trot homeward.

We are a block from the finish line when, suddenly, the dog pulls over to root around under someone’s boxwood hedge. He’s going to do it again!

I feel my blood pressure rise because I have no second baggie. And while this lawn is blessedly unkempt, I can see people in the backyard! I glare at the dog, whispering, “Hurry up, you!”

At last he is done and we high-tail it for home. And I vow to give this job back to my husband because I’m more stressed now than I was when I left.

And not one person honked or called us cute. Because, if they had, I might give this dog-walking routine another try.