Night walking

I’ve become something of an exercise freak over the past six months. Prior to Husband leaving, exercise was something I did because I thought I should. But my heart wasn’t really in it. After he left it was something I did out of necessity. I’d step into a gym class or put my runners on for a walk feeling like I was going to implode with grief/anger/anxiety. By the end of the class or walk I’d feel vaguely human again.

A couple of months ago that all changed. Exercise started blowing my mind a little. That sounds bizarre (and vaguely annoying), but it’s true. I began loving what it was doing to my body – how I felt, how I looked. I liked getting strong and fit. Instead of the smiles creeping onto my face at the end from the endorphins, they were there all along.

I’m still no Wonder Woman, but I’m making progress: half the push ups are done on my toes rather than all on my knees, I can feel muscles taking shape, my ooooooold clothes have started fitting again.

I also find lots of sneaky ways to add exercise to my day. I only catch public transport part of the way to work and walk the last 20 minutes. And instead of going for cups of tea with friends I go on walks with them instead.

I’m particularly fond of night walks. Night walks are gorgeous things. All cold and dark and peaceful and a little bit naughty if you stop for a sneaky glass of Pinot Gris at the pub halfway through.

Now, I’m an over-sharer at the best of times but at night it’s like I’ve had three glasses of Pinot Gris instead of one.

The words and thoughts and feelings and experiences just tumble out.

Thankfully my night walking friends are good listeners, non-judgemental, and don’t mind being hauled along on my verbal journey.

I’ll make it up to them one day. I’ll repay their generosity of ear.

I spotted this sign on our travels last night, it tickled our fancy …