Fast Walker

I am a fast walker. I’m a New Yorker, so I lean into the stereotype. Even compared to other New Yorkers I’m a fast walker, I think. This is a point of pride.

I’m 5’2” and have short legs, so I think that makes my speed extra impressive. If there was a Presidential Medal of Freedom for Fast Walking, which I think there should be, leg length should be one of the considerations.

I strongly feel that big cities should have designated lanes for walking, similar to highways. When I walk through midtown Manhattan, and the tourists slow me down, I am full of rage.

I can weave around any obstacle without breaking my stride. This makes me feel like I’m in a video game. If I could, I would jump on slow walkers like Mario jumping on turtles. I realize this is not an attractive quality.

Last year I saw a study that said fast walkers tend to live longer, but aren’t as happy. I took it as a compliment.

Men often look over their shoulders when they sense me gaining on them. They think they’re being followed, in a city of almost 9 million people. I think, if they suspect they’re being tailed, maybe they should SPEED THE FUCK UP.

When couples walk hand in hand, basking in the bliss of companionship, I have an uncontrollable urge to run through them like a game of Red Rover.

When people pause in front of every storefront, idly window shopping, I wonder how they can walk around with no agenda. People like to say life is about the journey, but it’s actually a race to see who can get to their destination the fastest.

If you are a slow walker, either because of age or injury or a “stop and smell the flowers” approach to life, I apologize for my bias and I urge you, please, to savor each beautiful moment. Go ahead and take your time.

Just not in front of me.