Walk Like an Egyptian (With Big Boobs)

I walk. I walk a lot. At first not every day. And then every day. And then more each and every day. I become the Forest Gump of walking.

And I learn a lot. Mostly about myself. Like when I dwell on a topic for 4 miles and get so immersed in thought that I have no idea where I've been for the last hour. It's then that I learn a couple of things.  The power of concentration. How to use the GPS feature on my phone. And, just how much I have to really, really think about.

And I learn other cool things. Like where all the port-o-potties are in the State Park, and where, deeply hidden in the woods, are the actual public restrooms, with running water and toilet paper and real live cleaning people who maintain toilet paper and paper towel levels and keep the joint smelling more like an actual restroom instead of a pot to piss in.

And I learn that walking, though good for the soul, and admittedly good for the body, and capable of working a body into a good, full on sweat, is not the most efficient way to burn a calorie. Even moving at an admirable pace and keeping between 13 and 14 minutes per mile, it still takes half the damn day to get in any really meaningful workout. Think of the time I'd save if I were running at 6 miles an hour?

But I am not a runner. And for more than one reason.

First, I'll say what no runner likes to hear: I hate running. Avoid it at all costs.  (I thought everyone did really, but I have friends that claim to love it. WTF?) If the building were on fire, I might only reach the level of briskly walking to safety.

And there is no bra on God's green Earth that I am confident would contain m'Ladies securely and reliably enough to sufficiently control the swinging, jiggling, bouncing and otherwise bad behavior m'Ladies would surely engage in if I were to endeavor to run.

And even if there were, I'd still decline the invitation for such fun. Because I am not built for it (putting the issue with m'Ladies aside for just a moment). My feet have the tensile strength of a piece of dry linguini, and are similarly brittle. I have had more stress fractures than most people have had a common cold and do not want any more, especially at this age. Watching a colleague with a stress fracture go wheeling about the office for three months on what could most charitably be described as a shopping cart with a knee rest opened my eyes to the risks of injuries to those who are no longe r20-something, even if we try hard to fool everyone.

So for now, thank you, I'll walk.