I can walk. I can even run, but I really, really hate running, so I prefer to walk even though I do run. Don’t overanalyze me here. There is NOTHING like the feeling of accomplishment experienced after having run any distance, but the whole time I’m running, I’m pissed. These people–frauds!–who speak of “runner’s high” and endorphins rush and all that? Lying liars, the whole lot of ’em. OK, what I’d really prefer is to eat as much as I like whenever I wanted while maintaining a super athletic build with slim, ripped muscular legs and a rock-solid core flanked by arms so toned they bring a tear to your eye. As luck would have it, I didn’t win the genetic lottery either, so I am forced to be extremely mindful of nutrition and activity in order to weigh fifty pounds less than the number from which my DNA shouts, “Over here, you dope!” Oh, to be genetically predisposed to be thin. *Sigh*
Today I put one foot in front of the other and took baby steps into acceptance. I signed our family up for the MDA Muscle Walk on April 26. I can walk, and so can my sons and so can my husband. I can walk to help others whose spin on the genetic wheel of fortune landed them on neuromuscular disease. Lose a turn. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. So while we are new to the “MDA Family” (man do I freaking hate the term “family” when used precisely in this context, and semi-related: I hold “journey” in equal disdain when describing someone’s sad experience of health-related issues, and I have already begged my husband not to use the phrase “lost her courageous battle with ____” (insert hideous disease here) in my obituary should I endure said hideous disease. What just happened here? Did I get a bit off topic? LOOK! Something shiny!!). Ahem. So we are new to the “MDA Family,” and will be attending our first family function and walking, all four of us, walking for friends, loved ones and strangers who can’t. Team Baby Steps.