As I rapidly approach another birthday, and I won't say which one this is, but I will say that I was born during the Reconstruction (which for you non-History Channel types, was the period in this country, roughly, from right after the War Between The States through 1877, and believe me, I didn't remember the dates either, I had to look them up), which makes me approximately 140 years old. About the same age as Bob Barker. (I have some mystery food in Tupperware containers at the back of my refrigerator that are about that old as well.)
With the increasing years, I've tried to take better care of myself, and in line with that point of view, I've gone back to an activity that I had abandoned for quite some time: walking.
Now I didn't stop walking completely; I still have to get from my throne (hey, I'm the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church, I have a throne) in the living room to the kitchen during Dodger/Laker games, from my bedroom to the throne in the bathroom in the middle of the night when I have to pee, etc. So casual walking is something I never completely stopped doing, just the "walking for exercise" gig. (I've also noticed with my advancing years that not a night goes by, not one, that I don't have to get up at least once to pee. Every night, without fail, somewhere between 2:00am and 3:30am, my bladder says, okay, I'm at full capacity, time to reduce the load. (Your bladder talks to you, doesn't it?) Every night. And the really bad part is that, once I'm awake, I have a hard time going back to sleep. I do a lot of reading in the wee hours of the morning.) (Use of the word "wee" in the last sentence was an unintentional pun.)
No, the kind of walking I'm referring to is done for exercise, with a designated starting/ending point, shoes designed specifically for the purpose, exercise-type clothing and a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon in case I'm attacked by Scklorn Mutants from the Outer Halcyons of Ambergris during my walk. I walk a minimum of a mile (sometimes a mile and a half) daily at least 6 days a week, in an effort to maintain some level of fitness and to attempt to keep the old lard ass from getting any lardier. Back about 15 years ago, I used to walk 6 miles every Saturday and Sunday, or 12 miles a weekend; then I got into biking, and an average weekend would see me go between 15 and 20 miles both days. (Large sigh of resignation here.) Sadly, those days are now past.
But I enjoy walking, and, unlike sex and cow-milking, its easy, needs no elaborate equipment and requires no particular physical talent, other than the ability to put one foot in front of the other without tripping and falling to the pavement.
But despite all the years I've been walking (slightly less than I've been alive), I recently discovered something interesting about the actual physical act of ambulation I was unaware of previously; you cannot, at least I can't, walk without swinging your arms. Now, when I say walk, I don't mean the casual stroll from your cubicle at work to the lady's room, or the walk you make from your car to the entrance of the mall. No, I'm talking about walking for exercise, with no other intent in mind, just getting from point A to point L. The minute I start to walk, my arms start swinging. Not helicopter-trying-to-take-off swinging, just this rhythmic back and forth movement.
And try to walk any distance without swinging your arms; go ahead, hold them down, straight at your sides and see how awkward walking becomes. (Go ahead, I'll wait.)
But even more interesting to me is the other discovery I've made about walking; as you step with either foot, the opposite arm moves. Step with left foot, right arm moves. Step with right foot, left arm moves. Just like four-legged animals, for example, like the ebert. (For those of you not familiar with the ebert, its a small, furry two-headed mammal with an enormous sex-organ from Lower Zimbabwe. The ebert is from Lower Zimbabwe, not the sex-organ.)
I tried to teach Harley, the official canine of the Pope of the AJATTWC (that would be me), to walk by moving his left front and left rear legs at the same time, which, of course, causes him to fall over every time he starts to take a step. He has indicated to me his displeasure with this attempt to reconfigure his walking activities, and has stopped cooperating. (Ungrateful mutt; see if I rub your belly and tell you what a good dog you are anymore.)
I considered adding gum-chewing to my exercise regimen, but I figured, with all the arm-swinging and the concentration I needed to make sure I do the left leg/right arm function properly, it would be just too many activities to ask this old brain to keep in focus.
However, I can still rub Harley's belly and pat his head at the same time, proving conclusively that I'm more than capable of repelling an attack from Scklorn Mutants at any time during one of my walks.
And how many people my age can say that? (Or would want to?)
Love and pedometers,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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