Walk On

“Oy.”

That word is spoken – silently or otherwise – as I haul my butt out of bed, knowing that I need to hit the streets for my morning walk.

My feet, my ankles, my Achilles tendons, my knees, my sciatica – everything hurts.  I’m no more than a litany of body parts that would keep an orthopedist in business indefinitely.  I stretch, worrying that I’ll simply aggravate the offended body parts.  I hear the “snap, crackle, pop” of my knees and shoulders as I get ready.  And I so don’t want to go.  I have other things to do.  Or I’ll go later.  Right, I can walk later.  But I know I won’t, so I go.

I throw on a shirt with some strange logo (where did “Hartford Health Care” come from?).  I check the weather to see if it is safe to wear shorts or whether I’d be better off putting on long pants.  I don the baseball cap I bought during a sudden 10-minute rain storm while visiting St. John.  I grab the phone and headphones, tune into Pandora or Amazon Music (since I will never be able to figure out how to access my 5,500 songs on “the Cloud” from my iTunes account without my iPod), and I hit the streets.  I wonder if there is an Olympic medal for just getting out of the house and walking when things hurt and you don’t want to go.  And then I remember how lucky I am to have the time, to have a place and to have the ability to do something others might want to do but can’t.  So I keep walking.

As I walk through my development, I make a mental note of the houses with generators so I know whose door to knock on in case of a power failure.  I envy the people whose homes have newspapers in the driveways since the Star-Ledger broke its promise to find my house and deliver the paper to me.  (I must admit, not getting a daily paper really cuts down on the clutter and the recycling.)

I dodge the sprinklers and the dogs on long leashes as I sing along (silently), hoping I can still recall all the words to “Love Child.”  I figure that if I can, I have avoided Alzheimer’s, at least for now.  I can actually hear the real words to songs I’ve known for decades, thanks to the headphones, although I still am not sure of the lyrics to “Louie, Louie,” but that, I’m sure, was the Kingsmen’s intent.  I think about the wonders of Stevie Wonder and the marketing genius of Berry Gordy.  I do, really.

Since I have been more stressed out than usual lately, I have even switched up the musical selections to include some New Age or spa music.  The music is soothing, although I find that nature sounds don’t work for me if there is running water in the background.  Saying more would be TMI.  I feel relaxed, but if only I could stop thinking for just a bit, I would really de-stress myself.

I stop periodically to remove tiny, almost invisible stones that somehow find their way into my shoes.  I’m like the character in “The Princess and the Pea:” I feel every little imperfection. I’m such a delicate little flower.

I notice the flowers and the variety of mailboxes from one street to the next.  I check the landscaping for ideas for my own property.  I take in the smells of the plants and the people who appear to have showered and put on clean clothes BEFORE their walks.  They smell like Tide.  I don’t.  I don’t even comb my hair (see baseball cap, above).

Because I live in an “active adult” community, there are plenty of other people out walking, too.  Some are older and some are younger, but very few look like they would be carded if they tried to buy the senior citizen ticket on the train.  There are some people who run, but I assume they are either younger and living with someone here who qualifies as 55 and older or they are visiting.  There’s one crazy woman who walks fast and far.  One morning I spotted her on the dangerous road outside the development.  When I returned two hours later, she was still powerwalking, but this time in another area.  Give it a rest, woman.  I note that no one I see has any kind of “cool factor” that is inherently mine.  Some sport fanny packs – and don’t tell me they are “back in style,” because these folks never gave them up.  I’ve seen people walking with umbrellas for the sun, carrying walking sticks, cross-body purses and wearing slacks and polo shirts, all looking totally dorky and uncool (compared to me, with my hugely oversized t-shirts and aforementioned St. John hat).

Sometimes I venture to a nearby park, where the views include a lake/pond, plants, people fishing, picnicking, riding bikes, walking dogs and playing tennis.  I can walk to Colonial Park, where I can literally “smell the roses” at the wondrous rose garden there.  That route isn’t as practical as noting the houses with generators, but it is much more life-affirming.  Or I walk along the tow path for the nearby canal, looking at the meandering path of the adjoining river.  Mother Nature is one cool chick.

These solitary sojourns give me time to think about the issues of the day.  What’s for dinner?  What’s my schedule for the rest of the day?  Can I get in my 3.2 miles/10,000 steps on just this walk?  Whose call do I need to return?  When can I do this again?  What’s the subject of my next essay?

I guess I have that one figured out.