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When Exercise is the Enemy
For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated walking.
It still strikes me as one of the grossest things in the world. If you do it for too long (especially in the Southern California heat where I grew up) you get all nasty and sweaty, your thighs start to chafe, you get cramps in your side and your legs — hell, your entire body — hurt for days afterward.
Even when I was young. I’d get some of the worst Charlie Horses during P.E. in middle school. I remember Mrs. Macintosh — one of the only kind P.E. teachers I had — and her expression of pity. She knew I was suffering, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
There’s always been an aspect of humiliation about it, too. Whether it’s being the last fourth grader to finish the quarterly mile walk — the Otter Pop bribes having melted to slush long ago, or having your high school weight-lifting teacher yell at you for walking the mile instead of running it, giving it your all.
These are the things I think of, when I think about going for a walk.
Logically, I know that there’s a biological system inside of me that releases endorphins, that should make walking — or other forms of exercise, feel good. A little hit to your body’s pleasure center that reinforces the idea that this is good for you. It feels so good.
