*A big bienvenue to my reader in Paris. I don’t know who you are, but I have seen that you are there on my reader tracking map. You’ve absolutely made my day. Welcome!*
I am celebrating having walked 100 miles today.
As I wrote a few days ago, I’ve just never considered myself a person who really cared for physical activity. I was always the girl everyone shouted, “Move up!!” whenever I served or batted anything. It was really depressing. I had that short stint with running. Then a few years ago my friend Sylvia, the Hollywood actress, invited me to aerobics class. I really got into it and then added yoga and Pilate’s — which I loved. I ended up teaching Pilate’s for a year which was such an exciting accomplishment. My dream was that one of those girls who yelled,”Move up!” would walk into my class. We were going to have some workout that day. It never happened. Anyway, I was sort of buff for a while. I started to think of myself as a tough girl. Grrr.
Then I was pregnant. I did yoga the whole time I was pregnant anticipating what a breeze labor and delivery was going to be in my new tough girl state. It wasn’t. Baby D got stuck. I wanted to quit. I felt like a weenie, but D and I did it. We survived. Tough girl. Tough baby.
So now, here I am, just short of this side of 40. My life doesn’t really have room for hyped up aerobic woman right now, so I have been walking. Walking and listening to gospel on my XM. Me and CeCe Winans and Kirk Franklin tearing up the streets.
I’m still a tough girl. I’ve decided it’s a state of mind more than an exercise class.