I like to walk.
It is not something that I will admit to anyone that I meet. In fact, I will often say things like:
+ If it’s more than two blocks, I’ll drive
+ No, really, you can’t pay me to walk five blocks
+ There is a reason I pay this car lease, you know this, yes?
Obnoxious, yes, I know, but sometimes I do mean them. I really did get that car to drive it!
But, the secret truth is that I like walking – love it, in fact – just not when it is for a purpose.
I like the aimless meander, up and down the rolling hills of my neighborhoods, the melting snow and the icy slick divots of uneven sidewalks. I like seeing kids outside on a Sunday afternoon, free from homework and free from stress, playing and loud and boisterous – they’re high-pitched voices echoing along the empty canyons of empty roads.
Each step I take releases a string wrapped around my chest. I feel the noose of the week’s blows and woes loosen; I can breathe again, deep and clean. It makes me feel young as my knees ache with the exertion of stepping through miles; it makes me feel free because my phone is off, my watch is left on my table at home, and there is no one and no thing that needs me more than I need this.
So, walking, I love it – I love my walkabouts – I love seeing my neighborhood through different eyes – I love the casual reclamation of my humanity.
But it is just for me. I am selfish that way.
(Obnoxious, yes, I know, but it’s true)