I had lunch with a dear friend yesterday, and, as is my wont, complained about the weather. “It’s too cold to walk the dog, even,” I whined, then shut right up at the look she gave me. She’s training for a half-marathon, and prior to our lunch had run 6.5 km (about 4 miles) and walked another 6.5. The wind whipped and the snow came down, but she ran, and her two dogs ran with her. I picked the wrong person to complain to.
I have to walk the dog more. Not just for him, but for me as well. I was diagnosed a few years ago with osteopenia, the precursor to osteoporosis, and I know walking is the best way to add bone density to the hips.
I did walk him to the park last Thursday and this past Monday, but the weather was decent both days. In spite of being born in a city with a climate similar to Moscow (but worse), in my middle age I’ve come to loathe the cold. It gets into my bones and makes me miserable. Exercise is supposed to improve mood, not worsen it.
Still, it’s embarrassing to be such a wussy-pants, especially when your best friend runs marathons. So I compromised. Today I took Our Best Friend to the park, but I drove there. Once there, I walked back and forth at the north end of the park, on an east-west path. I faced south the entire time; the one time I went a bit south and turned back north, my glasses got frostbite.
And I’m not the only wussy-pants, I guess. There were only five people there, including me. Three came with big, husky dogs, like OBF, but one was a woman who has a very cute Scottish terrier. We are nodding and smiling acquaintances, but a language barrier prevents much communication. I watched in amazement as she marched resolutely the whole circuit of the park, wind in her face and all, and the little terrier marched right along at her heels. They do get snow in the Scottish Highlands, so I guess the breed is hardier than it looks, and he had a lovely little red jacket on. Still, he didn’t have booties and he’s so small, I got colder just watching him.
Our Best Friend had a wonderful time. And I see his social skills improve day by day. For his sake (and my bone’s sake) I’ll endure it as best I can. But forgive me if I still whimper, “When is it spring again?”