Anything to get to that magic number.
As I say that was a little over two weeks ago. Leading up to her retirement. Early retirement I should hastily add in case she accuses me of surreptitiously giving away her true age.
Anyway.
Now she is no longer traipsing the halls of the medical institution which helped pay our mortgage for many years, some things have changed.
For starters, Mrs P has found it quite hard to achieve the daily golden target. She can get close on days when she’s a little busy and does the shopping, and stuff like that, but over the last few weeks that magic number has not been reached at all.
I should point out she has not totally given up on the physical activity front but it would be fair to say the attractions of a comfortable couch and a romantic comedy on Netflix some afternoons have proven more appealing.
Obviously, having got good marks in School C maths 100 years ago, Mrs P has worked out the day-to-day footstep requirements of her old job making it easier to reach the target each day whereas the comparatively laid-back exertions of her fledgling retirement do not.
So, working on the basis that any exercise is going to be good for you, she’s decided to do something about it.
A close friend has found herself in a similar predicament and the two have teamed up to go walking as often as they can.
Last Saturday was the start of their programme with a return to peak fitness and smashing the 10,000 steps a day target their aim.
Now, 11 am was the scheduled time for their programme to start. Obviously, that meant – in our household at least – that at 10am Mrs P was running around like a headless chook saying she had nothing to wear.
Apparently, these days one cannot just rock up in an old T-shirt and shorts and just, well, do it.
My mind wandered to a million cold, wet Tuesday and Thursday nights training for football in all kinds of weather down on the good old West Coast. Mud an inch thick in your ears and up your nose.
It was easier to plunge into the creek alongside the training field to wash the mud off your body and training gear. This was why we all wore crappy old stuff. I shuddered to think what those guys would have made of this kerfuffle.
Anyway.
I’m told colour co-ordination these days is important. As is the choice of fabric. There’s also the question of whether one should wear shorts over the top of tights. Apparently.
On that selection dilemma, I felt I had to mention it was still summer and tights for walking, however stylish, might look a bit unnecessary. Mrs P agreed.
Eventually, she presented in a stylish (read: Phwoar!!!) hot pink lycra singlet and black knee-length lycra shorts. That mystery noise you may have heard late last Saturday morning was probably my jaw-dropping.
So then, with time moving faster than Mrs P, we moved on to the shoes.
Now, I’m pretty sure I’ve written about this before but if not then let me give you a brief explanation.
To me, Mrs P seems to have a lot of shoes. The Boomerang Child (the one that always comes back) tells me I’m wrong. Apparently, shoes are the same as black pants. As in you need a pair for every occasion.
Hmm. I thought shoes were for just one occasion – walking – so one pair should suffice. Shouldn’t they?
Apparently not.
By that stage of the discussion my head started to hurt so I gave up and went to my mental happy place. I stood at the door of that same place last Saturday wondering if I should go in as Mrs P mulled over her selection of the appropriate walking shoe.
Miraculously she made her decision in quick time and before I knew it we were on our way to the walking location with Mrs P’s ensemble topped off, or should that be bottomed off, by a sensible-looking, spongy foamed pair of walking shoes with a natty hot pink splash on the side.
Colour co-ordination at its finest.
I dropped Mrs P off at the meeting point and, as I drove away, spotted her walking companion getting out of her car to greet her.
She was wearing a simple white T-shirt and a pair of shorts over tights. Groan. I figured I’d pay for that recommendation later.
So anyway, I go home, do my various chores and return an hour and a half later to pick up my beloved expecting her to be glowing (women don’t sweat apparently) and out of breath.
Imagine my surprise when I pull in next to the friend’s car and catch sight of something far less athletic.
There, on the little grass verge across the pavement, are two ageless chicks - one in hot pink, the other in white - who look like they used to be quite fit and are planning to get back into a bit of walking for exercise and possibly smash that 10,000 steps a day target they used to do with ease.
Not today though.
Today they are sitting there in two camp chairs with a chilly bin in between. On it is one of those small gas camp hotplates and on that is a kettle. They are having a cup of tea and a catch-up.
They’ve been there since 11am when they were supposed to be starting their walk.
Apparently having a good old natter sounded much more enjoyable.
Probably easier to smash out 10,000 words than 10,000 steps too.
