Taking a Walk

I went for a walk this morning (did the earth move?) before I had my coffee! I didn't shower first - I have to work up to showering, don't like getting wet - I simply pulled on pants and a top and sandals and walked out the front door.

With my purse and cell phone. And I called Hubby and talked to him for the first part of the walk. I'll explain later.

I have to move around. Daughter asked a friend of hers, who owns a gym, if he'd train me, and his answer was the same answer I've heard from doctors, the same answer my Grandmother used to give Grandpa - walk.

Walk walk walk walk walk walk walk.

Humanity evolved walking. It's simply the best thing we can do for ourselves.

Now, I'm not overly fond of walking. I'm not overly fond of exercise in general, which is why I find myself now having to walk. (Take note, all you young and fit ladies! Don't lose it! Don't let yourselves go! It's a murderously steep slope!)

If I simply must exercise, I prefer riding my bike. I also love swimming, but oops - there's that hating to get wet thing again. Once I'm in the water, I love staying in it, though lately this involves lazing in elaborate floatie toys rather than doing the crawl.

Time was, I could swim a mile. I was ten months pregnant at the time. First Hubby rowed the boat, and I swam behind it. I like swimming that way, with a rowboat and rescuer immediately to hand. It didn't bring the baby, but it was good for my back, and my mood.

I have to move around more now, because I'm fat, and because I'm also slipping down the - I hate to say the word "depression," - let's call it "sadness" slope. 

The time for foolishment is done past.

A pal of mine, D, started jogging years ago. I can't jog. Never could. All that weight, pounding my knees and ankles and feet - jogging is definitely not on my list of things to do.

But my girlfriend dutifully got up earlier than her family, threw on clothing, and went for a run every morning. This would be before six in the morning.

I don't think this scenario is very likely to happen to me, six o'clock in the morning is an ungodly hour to get up. So I don't think I'll take a walk on work days. But, fortunately for me, I only work three days a week. So that leave me free to go for a walk four days a week.

As I was walking this morning, my brain was busy trying to work out how I could excuse myself from this unaccustomed activity.

"What about in winter?" my brain asked, in a whiny tone.

"I have boots and a coat and snow pants," I replied grimly.

"What about when it rains?" came the horrified plea.

"I'll carry an umbrella," I said.

"But I hate carrying umbrellas!" Brain squealed.

"Then I'll wear a raincoat with a hood." I was determined.

"But that'll cost money!" Brain reminded me. "And raincoats are hot! Like those big yellow suits you wore when you rode a motorcycle - they're hot and they're expensive and..."

"That's enough," I said firmly, imitating my Grandmother's tone of finality. "The matter is not open for discussion. I will walk, rain or shine, four days a week."

Brain grumped around a bit, then came out with the anxiety. (The very same anxiety that makes me have to take walks in the first place, to decrease stress - the brain is a marvel of deviousness...)

"You know, you could be attacked..."

And now I return to the subject of the purse and the cellphone. And the call to Hubby. Because I am a woman, walking alone. And that makes me feel like there's a 30-foot long red arrow hovering over me, flashing the neon words "Prey here! Get your prey fresh here! Come and gang-rape this woman! Yoo-hoo - predators! Psychopaths! Murderers! Woman walking alone! Come and get her!"

Can't you hear the sound the neon sign makes as it flashes? A soft "kzt - kzt - kzt..."

I can.

I live in a pretty safe neighbourhood, in one of the safest countries of the world. And there aren't usually rape gangs running around at eight o'clock in the morning here. Or snipers lurking from behind large rocks. Or kidnappers in vans.

I'm more likely to get hit by a car, and I sort of feel comfortable about that level of danger, since I stay aware of traffic.

I don't think a man can quite understand this feeling of vulnerability though. I stay aware of traffic, of what's going on around me, like Jason Bourne is aware of exits. Hyper-awareness, it's called. You never stop looking for the danger, or for the escape route.

"They" tell women to stay aware of their surroundings. To carry their keys in their hand. To walk purposefully, not meander. To give the message to a potential predator that someone is expecting you.

They tell this to young women. I'm not making it up, I'm not imagining it.

I have another girlfriend who worked for a while at a rape crisis center. She bought a key ring that was shaped like a cat's head, with very sharp, pointy ears. Metal. I think about that key ring every time I walk out the front door.

So I called Hubby, just so all the murderers and rapists and snipers and kidnappers would know that I was talking to someone who would call 911 if he heard me being strangled or hit on the head with a rock or shot dead in the street.

Which kind of begs the question, just how much stress relief am I getting from walking around? Is it really worth it?

So I'm looking for a walking partner, or walking partners. There's safety in numbers. One of us can call 911 while the other is being dismembered.

And I'm gonna need a bigger key ring.

The Sleepless Night

My brain is wired for sound. I have to work tomorrow. When you only work three days a week, "they" kind of expect you to turn up rested.

I have been anxious lately, but today I had a good day. I had a visit with my friend/counsellor, I rode my bike, I contacted medical organizations regarding upcoming appointments (something I usually put off as long as possible) and I saw a great movie with Hubby.

I played with my kitties, ran the dishwasher, got sleepy, and went to bed.

Sproing! No sleep tonight. Were my brain to be scanned at this very moment, it would look like fireworks going off. Ooh, the colors! Ooh, the explosions! It's all very pretty actually - except when you have to go the work the next day.

I am seriously tempted to drive over to a friend's house, whose birthday it is in the morning, and put her gift somewhere she'll see it when she leaves for work.

I wasn't planning on getting dressed though, just getting in the car... Then I thought better of that. All it would take is one person to call the cops, and I'd be in for psychiatric evaluation. I think they start with a 15-day hold? No, I think I'll leave that one for the realm of fantasy...

I tried calling a pal who lives in Vancouver, but she's busy or out or something. Too late to call anyone else, I'm apparently on my own with this...

So it's either Ativan or Melatonin I guess. Or warm milk.

Apparently my life is far too exciting...

The time for foolishment

It seems I am, once again, going camping.

I think it was ten years ago that I swore I never would again, that I'd had enough of being bent over 50% of the day, to stir a pot, to unzip a tent and then zip it back up...

Enough of the rising damp, of the struggle to keep relatively clean and relatively dry. Of trying to figure out what I can and cannot bring across the border.

Of the entire day it takes to set up camp and to take it down again.

But no, I appear to have taken leave of my senses once again, and Boyfriend and I are heading off sometime this week to go camping.

It'll be my first time with this particular Boy Scout, who acquitted himself admirably yesterday, setting up a tent without a picture of the finished product, the instructions translated from Oriental, and my failing memories of how the thing worked. It's up in our back yard now, having given the neighbours hours of amusement watching us setting it up yesterday. Hubby dropped by and rearranged the front vestibule poles, and now it looks truly glorious.

Today we got a spray can of waterproofing and applied it to the fly, just in case...We are waiting for the weather report to indicate three mostly sunny days to actually head out to this particular campground - Lake Carmi State Park in Vermont - where the firepit stones have moss growing on them, which should tell you everything you need to know about the relative humidity at that particular venue! Except, of course, why.

Why I would go back.

I've been asking myself that question quite a bit lately, as we spent the past two (hot, sunny, beautiful) days in Canadian Tire, buying stuff for our short trip. Boyfriend has pleaded with me not to jinx it, but I can't help wondering if the heavens will pour down on us once we get there, having spent the only nice days in preparation.

Noise has something to do with it - why I would deliberately return. Our street is quite a busy one. It quietens down about 4 a.m on a Sunday morning, but the rest of the time you couldn't call it quiet.

The city, the pavement, the smell of the heat coming off the pavement, and the noise - lawnmowers, other people's music, other people's swimming pool parties, Osheaga playing on Ile Ste Helene... unless we close the windows and run the A/C, in which case it's the sound of the heat pump running endlessly.

Yes, at the campground you sometimes get some noisy neighbours, but after ten pm you can hear the crickets and the frogs. It gets much quieter than here, and my ears are desperate for some peace and quiet.

We were supposed to have been accompanied by good friends, who unfortunately have family visiting them right now and probably won't be able even to visit, but we decided we're going to head out anyway.

Tomorrow we'll clean house and arrange all our gear in some semblance of order in the basement, ready for the weather report to give the all clear. Our neighbours are on standby to babysit the cats. I think I might end up missing my Daughter's birthday. 

But we're going.

In the immortal words of Captain James T. Kirk (though he was an Admiral when he uttered them, but that's of interest only to serious trekkies) :

"May fortune favour the foolish."