I have reached the age where walking is exercise. I am not real happy about that, but I have decided to embrace almost forty with the reckless abandon of a thirty eight year old.

I wanted to be a forty year old runner. I tried to make it happen last summer and although my heart and lungs were up to the task, my knees and ankles started a mutiny. I was able to regain control after a two week rest but they had formed an unholy alliance with arches, left hip, right ankle and had also successfully lobbied sciatica just to drive the point home.

“Davie no run – we no like six foot two, two hundred fifty pounding – no matter how sexy.”

I gave in like a second grader being pressured by fourth grader for the only swing on the playground.

Winter arrived and everyone was happy with the new Davie. Even Davie was happy for a while until heart and lungs convinced brain that stomach was out of control. Brain recalled Atkins, which immediately got the attention of bowels and prostate. They in turn convinced taste buds and emotions that going down that road again could mean the end of bread.

The reality of losing bread shattered all alliances, Davie like bread.

Once I had the attention of everyone we reasoned together that the best plan was to walk. Legs reminded me that at any point they could call on knees and feet, and since they are the last to get bread, they could live with Atkins just fine thank you. Brain agreed to keep heart and lungs in check for legs if legs promised to get stomach out of bed and into cold.

All that was left was to convince pride that walking was just as sexy as running. In a stunning move, eyes locked onto gut in the mirror.

No one wanted to see that.

Gut was a little chilly and jiggly today on the first walk, but everyone was determined to make him less of an influence in this alliance, no matter what the cost.