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.