Simply Walking

The experts say if you can converse while walking, you’re not walking fast enough to do your heart any good. In fact, they say, you can't even rightly call it exercise.

 If that’s the case, then I haven’t exercised in 26 years. All signs point to that being true.

No matter, I don’t really walk for the exercise anyway.

I walk for the fellowship.

The husband and I have been taking walks together since our flower plucking days at the University of Georgia.  For over a quarter of a century, we have chiseled out time nearly every morning that he’s home to take a walk around the nearest block.

We strolled our way through college

all the way to the newlywed years.

We waddled through two pregnancies

and power walked through two recoveries.

We meandered all the way to our empty nest, and by the grace of God, we’ll limp over the hill to our golden years, even if we have to add a layer of Ben Gay to do so.

Our neighborhood stroll takes about 30 minutes.
Hot or cold, we take our walk.   

This troubled my father-in-law when I was carrying The Practical One so he loaned me an enormous hooded sweatshirt to cover my matching enormous belly.

It worked so well that he told me to take it home where it has lived ever since, the mainstay of my winter walking uniform.   I can pad it with multiple layers and still have plenty of room to spare.  (Not quite as much room to spare these days as I used to have, but that’s not for the lack of walking.)

On very cold days, I layer it over three shirts and a pair of thermals, tuck my hair inside the hood and stroll incognito through the neighborhood behind a pair of sunglasses.

The husband calls me the Unibomber. 

 

No matter. It gets the job done, and off we go.  I yakkity yak through the neighborhood, and he scouts out the fun stuff.

And we walk…

Past the laughing trees…

And the Davy Crockett stockades…

 

And the guest who overstayed her welcome...

We walk all the way to the back of the neighborhood where we stop just shy of the final cul de sac and those two black dogs who bolt out of their lawn and growl at me.

We turn around at this sign.

As we turn, I have the OCD need to reach out and tag it. Then, I sing the first line of Delta Dawn in my very best deep south twang.  In my head, I sound just like Tanya Tucker.

In his head, he probably wonders why he married me.  It must not bother him too much, though, because he always shows up the next time. For that, I'm truly grateful.

Because walking with my husband is one of my favorite simple pleasures.

*****

Sharing this with Dayle at 

A Collection of This and That
for her Simple Pleasures party.

Follow me there to enjoy more simple pleasures.
I promise you won't be disappointed.