Let’s be honest. It’s not exactly “if,” but “when” she falls. Of course, she’s gonna fall! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that forests are teeming with exposed tree roots. If there’s another thing I know, it’s that women tend to be pretty clumsy.

Why is she heading into the woods anyway? It’s early afternoon! On a Thursday! Doesn’t she have a job? Who’s watching her kids?

Look at her with that jaunty walk. That hideous bucket hat. That beige fanny pack. (Is she foraging?!) I’ve got two words for those too-short merino wool socks: Poison. Ivy. And who brings that many energy gels on a day hike? A lady looking for trouble, that’s who.

If she insists on braving the thicket, why doesn’t she bring someone with her? Anything can happen in the forest. Anything. Bears. Bobcats. Light a cigarette and—poof!—the whole canopy goes up in flames. Does she smoke? She looks like she might smoke. Is that a wrist tattoo? Yikes.

I hope she knows that cell phone reception in the woods is weak, at best. She should take a picture of the trail map before starting out, so she doesn’t get lost. Or if she’s bad at reading maps, she should leave a trail of peanuts. It’s not like she needs to eat ALL the gorp she packed. Oink.

And really, why a forest? Mosquitos. Ticks. It’s certainly no shortcut to church. Ha! As a matter of fact, that moisture-wicking tee sure does conceal the waistline. Same for those roomy hiking capris. We wouldn’t be crossing state lines to visit a certain “auntie,” now would we? Tsk, tsk.

Why isn’t she drinking more water? Wait. Why is she drinking so much water? If that’s even water in her canteen. All I’m saying is, how would anyone know if she snuck chardonnay in there?

Where the hell are these elusive woodlands anyway, and why are they devoid of people? Can this woman even exist if no one is around to judge her? She should just turn around and go home.

Either way, if she does find the forest, I’m convinced she’ll fall at some point. Maybe God will strike her down for flaunting that full-coverage sports bra. Maybe she’ll trip while dreaming up pork chop recipes. Or while running blindly, screaming with a rage so raw that even the snails sense the vibrations of her fragile voice humming along the dirt floor.

Ah, who cares. Sure, I’ll wager that if she reaches the woods, she makes a sound when she tips over. Helpless little fawn.

But why must she sound so shrill?