I was never good at strolling.
If I had a destination, I walked quickly. Not because I wanted exercise, mind you, but because it felt natural.
That all changed with my first pregnancy. The nonpregnant me bolted across a street with five seconds left on the crossing signal. The uber-pregnant me much preferred a full 30-second allotment. Anything less and I waited for the next traffic cycle.
This change of pace was entirely out of my control. As I neared my due date, my once-brisk stride was shorter, my stance wider, my torso tilted farther backward.