So, last weekend Charlie dog was booked into the puppy scrub for a bath and haircut. He goes out with his dog-walker and a gang of pups every day whilst I’m at work, including his bezzie mates Dave the Labrador and Kevin the Vizsla, and he’s a regular little mud-magnet. I swear down he could find a muddy puddle in the middle of the desert, you know? His favourite thing is to lower himself down into a patch of mud, whilst maintaining eye contact as if to say I know this drives you bat-shit crazy but I like the way it feels so I’m gonna do it anyway…I tend to keep his coat really short for that very reason, it’s just easier to keep him clean. So he has more cut and blow dries than I do, if we’re keeping count.

I dropped him off with a promise to return a couple of hours later, and the thought struck me that seeing it was such a pretty day, maybe it would be nice to leave the car at home when I went to collect him, so we could both enjoy the walk home. I clocked the mileage and it was a little over four miles – perfect, I could manage that…I had a plan.

Except, it was a blonde plan, right? Genius here in the stupid corner only realised three quarters of the way back to pick him up, on foot, that whilst Charlie’s walk would indeed be just over four miles, mine wouldn’t. Mine would be eight miles and then some. I’m so embarrassed even saying that out loud, I mean seriously? 

As soon as the penny dropped I felt like dropping to my knees and indulging myself with a full-blown tony bear tantrum, but in the end, what was the point? If I’d turned around I’d have walked six miles by the time I got home and then I would’ve had to walk the dog after I collected him anyway, so I didn’t have much choice other than to to suck it up and keep walking. My boy was at work, so there was nobody I could call and beg for help, and in any event I’m not sure I was ready to admit that I’d totally lost the plot. So on I trundled, muttering bad words under my breath with every step.

I’d been enjoying the walk up until that point. Once I realised that I’d done about three miles, with just over another mile to go before I was reunited with the pooch and then I had to do it all again in reverse, all of a sudden it stopped looking like fun. And for the next mile I felt like I was wearing lead boots, you know? I didn’t think I could do it, I’ve never even come close to walking that far before.

The Asshole voice immediately started chipping away at my head, obsessing over the fact that I was going to get blisters and insisted on doing a pain review every five minutes. He was also on high alert for any sign of protest from my dodgy knee…if the Asshole voice was to be believed, I was going to start falling apart very soon. Seemingly, fat old ladies have no right to believe they are capable of walking that far and it was bound to end in tears.

In case you’re wondering, eight miles and change equates to sixteen thousand seven hundred and twenty two steps. And it turns out that this fat old lady is more than capable of walking that far. Once I was a mile or so in to the return leg, following one very happy dog, I started to relax and give myself up to the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. That was probably around the time that I also started to believe that I could probably do it after all. And once that happened, even with tired legs I enjoyed it.

My anxiety slowly turned to glee as I mentally calculated how many exercise points I was accumulating. I passed the time by imagining bits of my arse melting away with every step. By the time we reached home, I felt euphoric. And once again I was forced to acknowledge the link between self belief and capability. That’s important. And it goes right back to one of my favourite quotes ever…

“If you believe you can, or you believe you can’t, you’re right.”

I know I’ve mentioned it before but honestly, never a truer word was spoken 🙂

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