Asphalt therapy is good for the soul
by Stephanie Piper
I set out on my walking regime with a sort of grim determination a dozen years ago. It seemed to meet all my exercise requirements: it was free; it didn't call for any exotic equipment or demand interaction with a 20-year-old aerobics instructor named Bambi. The potential for excuses was minimal; I didn't have to drive anywhere to do it. And the real drawing card was that I could do it alone.
I have to walk alone because I talk to myself. Asphalt therapy, I call it. Muttering under my breath like a New York bag lady, I pound frustration and anxiety into the pavement of my leafy suburban neighborhood.
I thud past walking couples and walking trios and whole packs of trim, Lycra-clad ladies taking their daily constitutionals. I overhear snatches of conversation, brief echoes of well-ordered lives: "...substitute low-fat yogurt for the sour cream," "...divided the daylilies and transplanted the hosta." Their voices drift along the wooded path. I hope they can't hear me.
I'm busy setting the world straight in 30-minute segments, delivering passionate monologues on the economy and the tangled web of human relationships and how many more calories I might burn if I add ankle weights to my workout. I'm having that long-delayed confrontation with the sullen sales clerk and finally telling my sister the truth about her hair. I'm plotting short stories and debating the merits of terra cotta tile over faux-brick for the kitchen floor.
I do this out loud. It's the only way to know if these ideas have merit, if the words, when spoken, are too strong or too wimpy or just plain gratuitous.
It's a tricky business, talking to myself without attracting mental health professionals. I try to keep the noise level down, barely above a whisper. But sometimes, believing that I'm alone, I rant in a normal tone. And that is invariably when I discover a bewildered jogger panting at my elbow.
At these moments, I find it helps to burst into song. "People Will Say We're in Love" from Oklahoma is a particular favorite; "You're a Grand Old Flag" works well, too. I smile brightly and hit the chorus with brio. See? I wasn't talking. I was just singing.
Facial expressions are another challenge. It's hard to look pleasant when I'm taking Dubya's leadership inventory or crafting a response to some personal crisis, real or imagined. A neighbor confessed that he'd often passed me in his car and wondered aloud, "Who is that mean-looking woman?"
So much for the bland mask I thought I'd mastered. I've recently purchased a pair of giant Jackie-O sunglasses, which I wear rain or shine. It's not paparazzi I'm dodging. It's the Smile Police.
What do I have to show for 12-plus years of asphalt therapy? I wish I could report that I've lost 50 pounds and achieved midlife nirvana. No such luck. On the other hand, I haven't gained 50 pounds, either. And on a September day, with the sun filtering through the leaves and the first muted shades of autumn appearing in the roadside weeds, I might even launch into a little James Brown. I feel good, dah da dah da dah da dah da. I knew that I would, now.
Join me in the chorus. And smile.
September 6, 2001 * Vol. 11, No. 9
© 2001 Metro Pulse
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