While I can’t really term myself a morning person, there are those days when I do have to venture out (and not with a jug of water into the nearby bushes, as you may suppose).
And these mornings are the time that afford me with a very compelling, entertaining glimpse (and sometimes a gawk), at the diverse set of people who have taken it upon their heads to ‘walk’ their way to good health.
Walk to your neighbourhood park to know what I mean…
We’ll start with the ones with the happy walk. They exude happiness; faces flushed, and often wave out a cheery ‘Hello,’ and are returned with the same salutation. Popular, undoubtedly! They walk hurriedly, some because of the daily cab they have to catch to make it to their workplace. They could be young executives – married and otherwise, college-goers, freshly-bathed housewives who will run back to attend to their chores, grandparents. These are easily the most common people in the walking circuit.
Then you have the smart military sorts – their saddled-with-grey moustaches twitching furiously as they make the 4-minute jog around the neighbourhood park within record time. You would think they would celebrate, considering their record was maintained. Heck no – they glance at the black chronograph on their wrists, ad set out…for yet another sprint.
I call the next sorts - the ‘Jigglers’ – they jiggle their bellies, their butts, or worse – their boobs. The increase in their gait is directly proportional to the intensity with which their aforementioned body parts wiggle. One-two-jiggle-one-two-jiggle-one-two-jiggle…and so on and so forth they waddle. They often take breaks and flop on the strategically put benches, huffing and puffing, and panting to catch their breaths. They are the ones who should be given an ‘E’ for ‘Effort.’
There are also the ‘Johnny-Heads-In-Air’ – their middle names are Attitude. They take heavy steps, head held high - nothing escapes their hawk eye, and their ached eyebrows speak more than a hundred words. If they were to be walking towards you, you would be wise to make way for them. Unless you want to be a recipient of their famous (notorious?) incredulous stare, which translates loosely into – ‘Did you really mean to do that?’ Point taken! Do not mess with them.
Next are the ladies who make their way in a group. They giggle, and cackle – nudging and stumbling over each other to ensure that not a careful whisper is lost from making its way to their eagerly-lapping-up ears. Shocked looks are all too evident on their faces - when Ms. Nosy Parker gives a blow by blow account of her neighbour’s steamy escapades with So-and-So. Tittering, they exchange horrified glances, and amble leisurely for yet another round of the park – this time to discuss tamer topics like children’s education, the weather, movies, jewellery trends, the upcoming raffle party at the Club and their designer chiffons.
You also have those who look as if they have just stepped out from a swanky salon. What else could explain their not-a-hair-out-of-place appearance. They never seem to walk – floating is more like it. They never have bad hair days, zits are an alien thing for them, those annoying beads of perspiration never seem to appear on their perfectly serene faces. Hell – only the halo round their heads are missing. Or maybe, you, with your permanent pact for entering hell, are unable to see it.
The next in line are the ones who scream – ‘Look at me! I have arrived.’ And they ARE quite an eyeful. Red sneakers and anklets shake you out of your sleep, neon-green shorts are dangerously high, and the Orange tee just makes you suddenly feel very thirsty for your orangeade. iPod headfones are a permanent fixture on the ears, and a bottle of perfume has clearly marinated them. Flashy would be an understatement for them. But attention score on a scale of 0-100 – any guesses? You got it – 100! It’s hard not to see why!
You next have the ones who have a sullen, dismal look on their faces. Sometimes pensive, they have a constantly bothered look around them. Almost as if their toes are getting pinched in a size-smaller shoes. Round after round of the park makes no change to their consistently gloomy expressions. Perhaps they should take a leaf out of a social butterfly’s life, whose sole aim in life is to flash those pearlies and get clicked.
And then you have me – the ambler, taking in all the sights before me, and committing them all to memory – and thereby reserving a place for myself in hell…
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