I walk to the gym every day.
Some call it commendable, I call it practical—it’s less than a 10-minute walk from my house, and depending on the flow of traffic, it can take that long to drive. Plus, something about driving to the gym when it’s well within walking distance feels wildly ironic. Frankly, I think anyone who claps for me because I walk to the gym is an oaf.
Although, the route is not particularly attractive. Most of it traverses a four-lane road—one of the main east-west veins through my town, that I also have to cross.
Every day, I arrive at the crosswalk and hit the button. The mechanical voice from the box passive-aggressively beckons me to “wait”. As I stand on the yellow tactile tile, obeying the command of the mysterious voice, I think, This is where I’m going to die.
Ok, maybe not die, but at least get seriously hurt.
As the si…
