I see these babes in my newly adopted FLA ‘hood all the time: Trucking along our palm tree-lined streets in sporty pink and orange (no black; black isn’t cool down here) tanks and shorts, often clutching tiny hand weights.
Slim, trim and determined, they’re almost always power-walking, not running.
And quite tellingly, these hot mamas aren’t covered in gnarly scrapes, scabs and bruises like running-addicted Yours Truly.
I think I need to stop running outside, and that makes me super sad. I just make far too much contact with concrete to justify doing it anymore.
Peep, in the pic here, the fading remnants of what happened to me earlier this month.
Sadly, this particular fall was a little freaky, because it didn’t occur while I was actually running.
I’d stopped at the curb of a cobble-stone street, watching as a golf cart – yes, a golf cart – with a family in it came barreling along.
“Hmmm, will this golf cart be STOPPING, by any chance?” I thought to myself. “Or will it take advantage of its non-car status and run me over?”
All of a sudden, a slippery dead palm frond I was standing on (they’re everywhere right now; it’s the FLA version of fallen winter foliage) started to slide out from under me, and down I went, crashing onto the surprisingly jagged cobblestones.
In other words, I was standing and STILL had a running-related mishap.
And here’s what made it even worse: I’d gotten lost while running and ogling the gorge houses on Brightwaters Boulevard, and Hubby had come looking for me in the car.
When he finally found me, I’d already taken my slippery-palm-frond tumble. But I certainly didn’t want to let him know that. He can be a tad tsk-tsky and judge-y.
“Don’t you want to hop in?” Hubby asked. “You’ve been gone for like an hour.”
“That’s okay,” I replied, turning sideways to obscure my battered knee. “But thank you.”
If there’s an upside to this story – and there really isn’t one – is that the fall happened after a schmancy event we’d gone to the night before, for the opening of the “Monet to Matisse: On the French Coast” exhibit at The Museum of Fine Arts. Had it happened before the event, I couldn’t have worn the skirt + heels combo I sported.
That show – mostly small-scale Impressionist seascapes, a few even by Renoir – is truly lovely.
Having to finally part company with the one form of fitness that really clears out all the mental cobwebs and puts you in a completely Zen state is truly un-lovely.
And on that note, I’m walking out the door to go pick up the Wee Lass from school.