- Bathroom Musings -
(Handle With Care - Traveling Wilburys)
Walking is a full-body workout.
I've taken to walking in 20-minute stints several times a week as a way to help stimulate weight loss. I wouldn't have thought that this would accomplish much, but my doctor and dietician both insist that I'm a big enough guy that 20 minutes is plenty enough to do the trick. So, being a good boy, I tried to adhere to their orders. "Do it first thing in the morning, or after dinner," they urged.
That's when I discovered the secret behind why walking is such good exercise.
I get my shoes on, get my AirPods in, turn up something pleasant to listen to, and then start down the road. Without fail, as soon as I've crossed the point of no return, where it's no quicker to turn around than it would be to simply finish my route, Peter Cushing, whose ghost lives in my colon, calmly announces to my bowels, "You may fire when ready."
See, you can't run home at that point. Running would only make the situation that much worse. Instead, you focus on speed-walking, taking steps in as uniform a fashion as possible so that you keep an even clench going on your hindquarters. By the time you've managed to get back home, you've managed to clench muscles from your neck to your knees in an attempt to bolster your defenses against an enemy whose march cannot be stopped, only delayed.
Walking is a full-body workout.
I've taken to walking in 20-minute stints several times a week as a way to help stimulate weight loss. I wouldn't have thought that this would accomplish much, but my doctor and dietician both insist that I'm a big enough guy that 20 minutes is plenty enough to do the trick. So, being a good boy, I tried to adhere to their orders. "Do it first thing in the morning, or after dinner," they urged.
That's when I discovered the secret behind why walking is such good exercise.
I get my shoes on, get my AirPods in, turn up something pleasant to listen to, and then start down the road. Without fail, as soon as I've crossed the point of no return, where it's no quicker to turn around than it would be to simply finish my route, Peter Cushing, whose ghost lives in my colon, calmly announces to my bowels, "You may fire when ready."
See, you can't run home at that point. Running would only make the situation that much worse. Instead, you focus on speed-walking, taking steps in as uniform a fashion as possible so that you keep an even clench going on your hindquarters. By the time you've managed to get back home, you've managed to clench muscles from your neck to your knees in an attempt to bolster your defenses against an enemy whose march cannot be stopped, only delayed.
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