I walk. Every day. I walk when it’s cold, when it’s hot, when I’m sick, when I’m well, and when I’m questioning all my life choices. For the past 20 years, movement has been my therapy, my fuel, my caffeine. Even with the flu, I shuffle along, not at lightning speed but at least forward. Always forward.

Once upon a time, I clocked a minimum of 80 minutes a day just walking to and from work. Bonus cardio, no gym membership required. During the pandemic, when the world shut down, my sneakers still laced up. Now I walk 60 minutes daily, tack on 30 minutes on the elliptical, and call it my non-negotiable “keep Mimi sane” regimen.

It’s simple: I need forward momentum. I get restless if I don’t walk. I pace. I twitch. I mutter. Kinetic energy has often been my personal “word of the year” candidate. I am kinetic energy. A blur in sneakers, a streak of motion.

Running? Outdoors, it’s tricky. Breathing issues stop me in my tracks, so I leave the marathons to the influencers. But put me on a treadmill, and suddenly I’m sprinting like I’m being chased by bad emails.

And let’s be real. Walking in New York is the best cardio. It’s exercise plus a free variety show. You’ve got dog drama on the sidewalks, street performers flipping over each other, tourists stopping dead in their tracks in front of you (hello, obstacle course training), and the occasional pigeon with questionable intentions. Every walk is a live performance of absurdist theater, and you’re the star navigating the chaos.

Movement is not just something I do. It’s who I am. Without it, I’d combust. With it, I breathe. And on days when I wonder if I should just collapse on the couch and binge another ridiculous show, I lace up anyway. Because a moving Mimi is a living Mimi.