I've Cultivated a Very Specific Tan

Almost every morning, when my husband goes off to work, the house is a little quieter. My son is entering his post-meal daze, and my dogs are snoozing heavily on their beds. It's early. The sun still a little sleepy. Everything is still.

In these moments I slowly, silently go just a little insane. 

I need to get out. I need to start my day accomplishing something other than dishes and obsessively refreshing and refreshing facebook during the baby's nap. I need to move. To say, "Hey there, limbs. Let's go do something with you."

So I walk. 

How can I not? I live in California! It's summer and the mornings are warm. Don't get me wrong, I am as lazy as they come. I will just as easily lay on my couch, marathoning episodes of Arrested Development while shoving cookies and fistfulls of salty food products into my mouth until my appendages fall off. And even then, I'd be like, "That's a bummer. I think I need those for something. Oh well. Can you stick that oreo into my mouth? Thanks, chief."

However, I have a baby who needs attention or an activity all of the time or he becomes an explode-y cry monster who just wants to chew the remote. Just this one time. Please oh please, those shiny buttons look so tasty. I don't understand what you're yelling about, I don't know what batteries are. But I bet they're tasty too, so you probably won't let me eat those, either. 

Fortunately for me, I have a beautiful and only slightly smelly park with a lake less than 5 minutes from my house. So I pack up the boy and his diaper bag and his boppy and his car seat and his stroller that only fits in my car if I take it apart and curse it with gypsy magic, and we go. To Starbucks. And then the park. 

                                                              Ice-cold motivate-y goodness. 

                                                                       See? Sunshine! Lake that only smells a little! 

                                       

The path around the lake is two miles, (but if you ask me on a hot day, it's 14 miles and can you please get me some water I can't feel my face) and I usually walk twice, unless my wonderful friend J is with me, then we sometimes do three times, congratulate ourselves on walking 52 miles, and bury ourselves in piles of sushi. I mean vegetables. Two stalks of celery and a grain of brown rice. Then we fly away on our unicorns. 

This morning was a solo walk, the customary 4 miles. It was an especially beautiful morning, so I slathered myself and my son with sunscreen that won't fill us with poison, (but costs so much it really should come with diamonds or a sunscreen applying butler who will put it on my son's face for me so I don't have to hear him scream like the lotion is stealing his soul through his face skin) and got to walking. 

I walk past other people getting out. Other moms, some couples, some older folk. Some super-fit runners who only eat air and slivers of lettuce, running along like their feet are made of clouds and they have no bones. They usually lap me. A few times. 

I pass quirky landmarks that tell me, You're almost halfway there. You're almost done. Or sometimes, You just started, why are you sweaty?

                                       I'm not usually fond of carving into trees like this, but this is the 

                                          only one at the lake that has this. Full of old and new love. And some swears.

I walk (quickly) past scary geese who want only to eat my flesh and murder my whole family. 

                                                                 This one stared into my soul while I took his picture. 

I walk. I put miles behind me. Sometimes I run and alarm the elderly people. Then, after 4 miles pass, and I've made my sacrificial offering to the geese, who demand it so I may live; I go back to my car. I pack up all the things, I finish the tiny little bead of iced coffee sitting at the bottom of my cup and I go. Home. Where the dogs are excited and there are books to be read out loud, ABC's to be sung, clothes to wash, and stuff to clean. I guess my walks are more about peace than anything else. A small section of the day I can carve out like a heart in a tree, just for me. I can listen to podcasts, talk to my friend, smile as my son falls asleep in the stroller. 

As long as I keep moving. Keep walking. I'll drink in the California sun for as long as my legs can carry me. 

I'll keep going. 

For miles.