Where the Sidewalk Ends

This morning I discovered two important things. First, I'm a walker (not a jogger, runner, biker, cardio junkie, or gym rat). Second, the sidewalk ends exactly 1.6 miles from Josh & Melissa's house.

What's the big deal?

To begin with, I have a love/hate relationship with fitness. I love all things sweet. I hate how my thighs grow a little heftier, how my arms turn a little softer, and how the numbers creep a little higher. I've tried the jogger thing - once - for about three months. In the middle of one particularly tortuous jog, I stopped mid-stride and said to myself: "Why am I doing this? I absolutely hate it." I understand that some necessary things in life we will never, ever enjoy. But jogging is not the only option to burning off the calories from my sweet indulgences. I've also been the member of at least three different gyms, which routinely lasts for about six months. I either get bored with the routine or I decide that spending money on something that I could technically do for free is not a wise investment.

So this morning I put on my tennies with goal of walking just 30 minutes. I loved every minute of it. I can walk alone and think or pray. I can walk with a friend and talk about life. I can people watch and house scout. I can linger long enough to smell the magnolias growing in a neighbor's yard. Instead of checking my watch to see how much longer I have to exercise, I find myself checking my watch to see how much more walking I can squeeze in before I run out of time. And this morning, on my walk, I discovered that if I leave J&M's front porch and walk, literally, to where the sidewalk ends and back, I've walked my 30 minute route!