10,000
Most days both Michael and I end up walking around the house to get our 10,000 steps for the day. I'm not sure that's what Fitbit had in mind when they developed their little trackers, but that's what happens when you spend most of your day on a computer – suddenly it's dinner time and the sky is growing dark and you're 7,000 steps short. So you walk in circles around your living room. I have a circuit laid out that my feet know so well I can follow it while reading a book and not have to look up. Around the kitchen island clockwise, counter-clockwise around the dining room table, then down the hall, then back in a circle around the coffee table. Then repeat. I've done this millions of times. Around and around and around. Michael's path is different. It probably says something about the way our brains work. He goes in a straight line through the length of the house, from the side door through the living room, down the hallway and to his night stand. Then turn and repeat, straight back to the side door.
It's comforting, really. Your legs start moving in familiar motions, the stiffness gradually fading away, and your brain temporarily puts aside any of the day's work not yet finished. And once you're done you can feel like you got something accomplished, at least, even if the rest of the day was a bust.
I had my writing class tonight at the IMA. Afterwards I walked around the grounds a bit and made my way to the Monon, wanting to get some steps in outside while the temperature felt nice and the daylight clung to the trees. I suddenly felt immensely happy, walking by myself in the almost-dark underneath the branches. Thinking back now I can't really place the happiness, but I think it had something to do with going somewhere on your own, with using your own feet to move you. I didn't need anyone with me, and I could go as far as I wanted, at whatever pace I wanted. There were people around me, all enjoying the outside, and down the road were the restaurants all lit up and filled with people. Everyone was living their lives, and I was, too, in my little bubble amidst the noise.
Soon enough it got too dark, and I made my way back to my car, taking a little bit of joy in the motion of each leg, the fluidity of my steps, each foot crunching down on the stone of the pathways. And there was joy, too, in the knowledge that my husband and dog waited for me at home, that though there was still work to do tomorrow and more steps to get tonight, this was all a part of living my life, the way I wanted to live it.
It's comforting, really. Your legs start moving in familiar motions, the stiffness gradually fading away, and your brain temporarily puts aside any of the day's work not yet finished. And once you're done you can feel like you got something accomplished, at least, even if the rest of the day was a bust.
I had my writing class tonight at the IMA. Afterwards I walked around the grounds a bit and made my way to the Monon, wanting to get some steps in outside while the temperature felt nice and the daylight clung to the trees. I suddenly felt immensely happy, walking by myself in the almost-dark underneath the branches. Thinking back now I can't really place the happiness, but I think it had something to do with going somewhere on your own, with using your own feet to move you. I didn't need anyone with me, and I could go as far as I wanted, at whatever pace I wanted. There were people around me, all enjoying the outside, and down the road were the restaurants all lit up and filled with people. Everyone was living their lives, and I was, too, in my little bubble amidst the noise.
Soon enough it got too dark, and I made my way back to my car, taking a little bit of joy in the motion of each leg, the fluidity of my steps, each foot crunching down on the stone of the pathways. And there was joy, too, in the knowledge that my husband and dog waited for me at home, that though there was still work to do tomorrow and more steps to get tonight, this was all a part of living my life, the way I wanted to live it.