I Can Walk

If I had to pick one word to describe the shape of my body, it would be “bloppy.” Bloppy is not a shape that can be mathematically spelled out using Euclidian geometry. It’s a semi-liquid. It’s irregular. It has both angles and curves.

But get this: I can walk. I can take this bloppy shape, which towers sixty-six inches above ground[1], balance it on two irregularly shaped pads of less than a half foot square apiece, and then mobilize it across uneven terrain. I can do this even if I shift my center of balance by changing the shape of my shoes.

Unbelievable, right? It’s really an incredible feat of engineering and balance. Which is stunning, considering how uncoordinated I am in other areas. I can neither run, catch, nor throw, can’t pour liquid into a glass without spilling, but I can walk tremendous distances, go up and down stairs, and pick my way across rocks.

Big deal, you might be saying. I’ve been doing that since I was a toddler. Well, yeah. And so have I. Which is why we generally take it for granted. It’s something we’ve been doing without thinking since before we can remember doing things.

Now that I’m getting older, and I see my loved ones and peers start to lose their ability to get from Point A to Point B under their own power, I’m starting to appreciate this ability more and more. I was recently in Washington D.C. and I walked up the forty-seven jillion steps to the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial and I thought, I really need to appreciate what a big deal it is that doing this isn’t a big deal. How many people sit in wheelchairs or stand with canes or walkers at the bottom of those staircases and just wish they could participate?

In the airport, it took me three thousand and change steps to get from my car to my gate. That’s with the assistance of a shuttle bus and the Plane Train. A long hallway doesn’t scare me. But it’s a big deal for a lot of people.

My knees make a bunch of noise. They crack, and sometimes snap and pop when I stand up. Occasionally they ache, but not enough to stop me. My hips need to be stretched from time to time, but other than that they don’t bother me at all. My shoulders are just fine. My wrist can predict the weather, but that’s because I broke it playing Pickleball and it is now made of titanium.[2] Not bad for an oldish gal.

But my luck won’t hold. I’ll keep on walking, one foot in front of the other, appreciating each step, until I can’t. Then I’ll probably be sad about how I didn’t appreciate how easy it was for me to just “run in and get milk” while I could.

[1] More, if I’m having a good hair day.

[2] See: can’t run, catch, or throw, above.

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