I am the only person you know who has a nervous fit over a pedometer.
Yesterday I decided to go up to the attic, not because I was hoping Greg Brady lived up there, but because it seems like we tossed an inordinate amount of stuff up there when we moved in that — turns out? — I would like down here. Like my diffuser, for example. I specifically BOUGHT my blow dryer because it had a diffuser, and could I find it anywhere? Every day I go to work looking like Angela Davis because I don't have a diffuser.
Tallulah is horrified of people going up to the attic. I do not know why. Was she Anne Frank in another life? All I know is that when Marvin goes up there, she goes tearing into whatever room I'm in and tries to get on my lap. And no, I am not going to say, "She THINKS she's a lap dog!"
So, up there in the attic I not only found the journal coffeegal made for me that I've needed, because I used to write all my running times in there, but also my heating pad, my grandmother's pot holder hangy on the wall thingy, several diaries which I think I should copy for you because you will DIE when you hear what a nutbar I was in 1987, and also a brand-new pedometer, still in its earth-unfriendly packaging, that I bought at the beginning of this healthy year.
As you know, if you think of nothing but me and my life (you know what I hate? The word "lifestyle." I had a professor who said people who say "lifestyle" rarely have either. I also hate the "word" mindset), you know that I go walking twice a day with several people from work. I have always been curious about how far we walk. So I said, Hey! I will take my pedometer to work and figure out how far we've been walking!
Now, this is something a normal person might do, and their curiosity would be assuaged, and that would be that.
When I got to work and removed the-polar-bear-will-be-swimming-for-his-ice-for-a-long-time-at-this-rate plastic packaging, there were instructions on how to get the pedometer to know how far you have been walking. You have to measure your strides. I did not take this in stride.
I went into the hallway and walked rapidly for 10 paces, then I turned back around, and slowly, like I was on one of those really slow walking pilgrimages, or taking a sobriety test, walked heel-to-toe back to my start point. I did this in front of GWDGM's office, and she didn't even ask.
Then I went in and did "math" to figure out my stride rate and put that info in the pedometer.
Okay, right when we said "math" we were in trouble. I went on my first walk at 10 a.m. and after our usual 18 minutes of walking, the thing said we'd gone .61 of a mile. Okay. No, we hadn't. We had to have gone WAY more than that. Point 61 of a mile. Whatever.
At lunch, my hearty Weight Watcher's I-had-a-piece-of-lettuce-and-may-vomit-it-up-tonight-so-I-can-count-it-as-activity-points lunch, it occurred to me that every day I sit in the shade in the middle of…A WALKING TRACK. They have a walking track at work. Seven times around it is a mile.
I dashed right back up to my office like Jude Law was up there. I grabbed that pedometer, recalibrated it for longer strides, and got on the fascinating track.
Everybody in North Carolina waves at each other, by the way. So when you pass someone on that track, even though you may work with that person eight hours a day, and even though you have waved at them the LAST time around the track, you are still supposed to wave. I think waving counts as activity points too. Imagine how many I'll get for vomiting lettuce and waving at the same time.
Girl, I went around that thing seven times and do you know what the pedometer told me? POINT SEVEN TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! POINT SEVEN TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
At the three o'clock break, I could think of nothing else. I blew off my walking group, recalibrated AGAIN, went back to that track and got…..83.
I hate everything.
If you think I'm not gonna try again tonight on my treadmill, you do not know the depth of my obsessive disorder.
And my diffuser? In the hall closet the whole time.
I leave you with this:
What do they mean? Are we supposed to place our pretend shoes there? Is it a euphemism for "bras"? What?