Wheels on the bus

I fell twice when I hiked up to take this photo

In the winter, I walk my dog two, three, sometimes four or five times a day. I don't ski every day, but I ski probably three or four times a week. Other than that, all forms of exercise consist of schlepping my ass up the three flights of stairs to my office and walking down to the food court in the main ski lodge. My desire to walk up and down those flights of stairs is directly proportional to the strength of my craving for a slice of pizza. I wasn't in good shape this winter, but I was strong enough to hike the side of the hill in ski boots in order to get a picture of the one mound of snow still showing more white than brown in mid-April. And, believe me, that mound of snow was not near the bottom of the mountain. Well, it was near the bottom of the mountain, but I still had to hike for 10 or 15 minutes to get there.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I why I didn't take the chairlift. I believe it was because I felt it would be easier and faster to hike than to slog my way down a ski trail. LAZY!

I say all this because I realize sometimes we make things harder than they have to be. I'm stronger than I was when I started this weird little navel-gazing life plan adventure journey of discovery and it's all because I do schlep and slog but now it's starting to feel less and less like a schlep and a slog. The little changes can make a difference.

But, there's a reason I brought up the dog at the beginning of this post. Today, while walking the dog, I was looking around. I walk the dog in the winter, but rarely in the summer. I know that's a bit counter-intuitive, but in the winter we live in town and in the summer we live with a large yard by the water. The dog comes and goes as he pleases and we take him swimming for exercise. In the winter, however, he requires a lot of walking because he can't come and go. And, for most of last year, I was a single dog walker because groom broke his leg and was on the DL for about eight months.

Eight months' recovery might seem like a long time. It was a nasty break, believe me. I'd love to make fun of his long recovery, but I'm talking about a shattered leg. I'm also talking about a guy who got a fishing hook stuck in his hand and needed to go to the emergency room this weekend to have it removed, which took multiple tries. I pricked my baby finger while cutting a bagel this weekend and I claimed I couldn't crack my own lobster because it stung too much. My husband, on the other hand, who had a hook in his hand--he had a hook in his hand--nonchalantly squeezed lemon juice over the lobster he cracked for me.

He also got a Tetanus shot and didn't say a word about how much his arm hurt. If that had been me, I would have been curled up in bed for two days demanding bubbly water and Percocet. 

stretch of road

I'm walking too far down this rabbit hole. Let me rein things in. I bring up the dog walking because, as I looked around at all the greenery and the stretch of road ahead, I remembered today why I used to love jogging so much. The stretch of road in front of me was always so....what...comforting, I suppose. I used to dream about running and I would wake up thinking about running. (I keep using the word "running," but I don't run. Let's be serious here. I jog. Slowly. Like Private Benjamin thinking about lunch.)

I'll probably start stretching and working out my IT band issues so I can hit the road again. I do miss it.

But, first, I have to tackle some demons. I had a backslide today and, as you can imagine, it involved cheese. Well...actually, it involved "cheez," as in Utz Cheez Balls.

You can laugh all you want, but I'm a sucker for Utz Cheez Balls. If you show up at a party with a barrel of Utz Cheez Balls, I guarantee you, the night will include a contest involving how many of those Utz Cheez Balls people can fit in their mouths. If that doesn't happen, chances are you just spent the night talking about genocide in Darfur or sex crimes in Somalia, but if that's the case, what were you doing showing up at that party with a barrel of Utz Cheez Balls in the first place? Know your audience, man. If you're invited to a potluck and one couple is bringing their famous tofu scramble while the woman next door offers to bring her special kale salad, don't show up with the cheez balls. Unless you're a douchebag. Then, you get my applause, but otherwise you're on your own.

so gross and so great

but this is a better choice

You know what? Scratch that. The one person I know who is devoting her life to saving the world by visiting places like Darfur and Somalia would totally challenge me to an Utz Cheez Ball contest. So far, much to my husband's delight, my personal best is 17 of those little orange tragedies in my piehole.

Back on topic, today, I ate a handful of Cheez Balls.

And...wait for it...they were stale.

And I ate more.

I know. I'm disgusting. This is why I'm doing what I'm doing.

Today, after backsliding, I went for a walk with Little Miss Bounce a Quarter and I'll probably hop on the elliptical for a bit this afternoon. And, I did travel with fruit in the car so I wouldn't be tempted to stop for a snack at the Irving station--well, that's a bad example. Irving does always sell bananas. I just never buy them.

Ha. And, all this time, I thought this post was going to be about the little changes people can make to feel better about themselves.

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