After much internal debate, I decided to take up walking. Actually, what really happened were a few seemingly unrelated but recent events that just screams conspiracy theory to my cynical mind. What, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.
The first thing that happened didn't seem so tragic. The Man and I cleaned out the entryway closet last week, previously referred to as The Hole. In said closet, we (by we I mean "he" of course, as I stood over him supervising the cleaning so as to be sure he didn't discard any beloved shoes) found my sneakers, which were only slightly used from my last attempt at exercise, which was the whole reason I bought them, about a year ago. That stint lasted about three weeks, if I remember correctly, but I did jog a few times, with the friend I have who will be called E (for Evil, naturally) here. She is into fitness and nature and all things odd. Anyhow, I also walked on my lunch breaks and before the start of my shift with a coworker and ate oatmeal instead of my daily Snickers, drank water unaccompanied by caffeine or alcohol and did all manner of things unnatural to me. It didn't last long, but I do remember something about endorphins and slight downward weight fluctuations.
Then, I found my "workout clothes" while cleaning off the top of the Man's dresser. What they were doing there, I have no idea, but I can only assume they got shuffled around in the move, and never made it back into the bottom of my bottom drawers, hidden under other clothes-I-never-wear-but-can't-justify-getting-rid-of-because-they're-fairly-new-and-still-fit (see above description of the age and condition of my sneakers), where they rightfully belong. Out of sight, out of mind type of thing. I don't want anyone getting any funny ideas about my workout gear- it isn't anything fancy or special; just blue pants used for all manner of things such as walking, the elliptical hidden properly on a porch not used for exercising, mopping the floor, and sleeping; a bra that prevents painful bouncing, and sweat socks. But there it all was, seemingly stacked together as if to say "Here we are! We've been waiting for you! Put us on and use us for our intended purpose, you lazy slob!" It's a conspiracy.
Then the Man came home yesterday with an mp3 player, which further confirmed my theory. I had mentioned to him in passing that if he was planning to get himself one, maybe I'd borrow it on the days he wasn't using it to go for walks. You know, at some hazy later date. Sometime in the very distant future. He bought me my own for such a purpose purely to be nice, and not at all to be pushy about me going for walks, or as some thinly disguised hint that I am morphing into the Michelin Man. I know this because the Man values his life. However, once I had a pretty pink shiny new one in my hands I couldn't very well not use it, especially given the fact that we don't have the same taste in music, and his black one fully loaded with his music wouldn't be upbeat enough to make walking conducive. Unless I was walking toward a hangman's noose of course.
Then I wake up today early enough to get a jump start on my morning routine, which left me with no excuses. As if that weren't bad enough, the day dawned with nary a cloud in the sky, and cool enough to be perfect for walking but not so cool as to lend me a reason to stay inside curled up on the couch with a book, which is what I like to do on cold days. Perfect. Literally. A picture perfect day for going for a long walk. Great.
So I decide that I can take a few mile-long walk. No big deal, I walk around all day long. Down the driveway to put the kids on the bus. Back up the driveway. To the mailbox. To my dad's and back a few times. Up and down stairs several times, even. The route I'll be taking is a nice mostly level trek on a nicely paved road. I used to do this very same walk about twice a week, so surely I can muddle through at least once, with plans for doing it three times a week.
I plug the earbuds in, start up the tunes, and off I go. I neglect to stretch, but figure hey, it's just a walk, and I'm not signing up for the Boston marathon. I'll be just fine.
About an eigth of a mile in, I'm feeling the burn, but no pain, no gain, right? Two miles in, I stop and stretch my screaming calf muscles. All told, I walked about four miles, stopping a couple of times to stretch and text (you didn't really think I would be walking and not texting did you?) and stretch some more.
It occurred to me when I was nearing the home stretch (pun intended) that this walk was like the first day of school when I was in high school band. The band teacher was a sadistic bear of a man, who I loved dearly. However, his very favorite thing to do was "warm us up" with a Sousa march. We'd all been screwing around all summer long, letting our omatures go to waste. We'd not go through the first day nice and easy with scales or the Basic Band Blues, oh no. It was the most difficult Sousa march he could dig up, and he relished the winces and groans he pulled out of us when we'd wet our reeds and he passed out the sheet music, making us play it in half time until we all genuinely thought our mouths were going to fall off.
He was in cahoots with the scheduling bastards, who without fail always managed to put the band period just before lunch, so for about a week, none of us could eat a bite because our mouths were numb and too sore to even open for a couple of hours after being tortured. By the end of the year, we were not only playing any march he threw at us, but we were playing them by memory while actually marching to the cemetery, and in a wool uniform on Memorial Day with a funny hat on our heads to boot, but that first week was killer.
I'm hoping the walking will be the same, only with any luck it won't take me a full nine months to get back in shape. I like to joke that round is a shape, but I used to be just a little less jiggly, and I still own a few pairs of shorts I'd look a little less like a sausage in with a little effort and less chocolate. I'll start with the walking, and work on the chocolate.
Baby steps, and stretching.
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