It’s time to admit that my blog title is currently a fraud. I can no longer walk 2 to 4 miles a day.
There. I said it. I’ve been avoiding admitting it as long as I could, hoping a miracle would happen. You know, like healing the sick and curing the lame and making the blind see. Just your everyday miracle.
After deciding to take on the new challenge of running a 5K (after ten years of walking 2 to 4 miles a day), I finally have to admit that my 61-year-old knee let me down. I thought I was training correctly. I thought I was progressing in stages. But since the middle of March, I haven’t even been able to walk on a regular basis, let alone run 3.1 miles.
Currently, I am on knee rest. I have promised Tom that I won’t even try taking walks for a week. I watch forlornly out the window when he leaves for his daily hike, my nose pressed against the glass, trying not to covet his knees. His nice, bendy, un-painful knees. His springy, cooperative, Arizona-tanned knees.
I had always suspected that my 2 to 4 miles a day were directly tied to my mental health. Now I know it for a fact. Walk—and I feel happy. Don’t walk—and I feel sluggish and gosh-darn snarly. Walk—and I sleep well. Don’t walk—and I toss and turn. Walk—and I eat normally. Don’t walk—and I feel like consuming candy-coated chocolate in 8-pound bags.
So, now I’ve admitted my failure—my sham of a blog title. I’ll wait a week—ice packing, elevating, ibuprofen-ing, praying for that miracle. And being patient, even though I’m feeling very impatient. Snarly, even.
I just hope it doesn’t mean I’ll have to change the name of this blog to “View from the Couch— Touch My M&Ms and You Die.” Like I said, snarly.