I might be 70 years old. I don't know, the jury is still out due to my obsession with sweaters, my love of clogs, and my recent hobby: powerwalking.
I wrote powerwalking as one word even though my spell-check is telling me not to, but I really think it deserves to be recognized after experiencing it and loving it. You may remember how I mentioned that Dave and I picked up a sweet pair of ankle weights when we went down to St. George over President's Day weekend. Insisting that his parents never use them, we decided to give them a new home. I sort of assumed that they would be a joke item that we played around with, but on Tuesday morning I was just super bored with everything that I usually do to workout, and I decided to try strapping on the ankle weights to give my run that day a little extra somethin-somethin. Don't worry, I wore flared workout pants so that hopefully they would fly under the radar.
Well, I set out with a purposeful jog, but soon realized that my legs were the weight of two large safes and a grand piano combined (I am hoping that everyone gets that reference to stereotypical heavy things in cartoons. If you don't, go watch Road Runner real quick). Seriously, I could jog like a block and then I had to stop. I felt like such a wimp, and I started wishing that everyone could see through my deceptive pant legs and my lameness would be justified. However, I wouldn't give up on my workout, and decided that if running with what felt like the combined weight of two Chuck-O-Ramas strapped to my ankles, I would do all I could manage: walk at a very brisk pace. All around the South of campus. While everyone was walking to school. Consequently, I saw everyone I know as I rolled those hips and pumped those arms. Yep, I looked pretty cool.