2453 Steps and A Million Miles To Go

In case my large butt wasn't confirmation of my sedentary lifestyle enough, some "kind" soul (my sister) gave me a Pedometer for my birthday. After using it for a day, I know now, clearly and unequivocally, that she hates me. She really, really hates me.

My self-esteem is permanently damaged. While other people march to a different drummer, I sit in my Aeron Chair typing and stand at the washer and dryer washing and drying and that doesn't add up to many steps. You know how all those Super Model moms say that they keep their boyish shape by chasing after their toddlers? Pshaw!

2453 steps. That's how many steps my chubby little legs take me on a regular, busy, harried day "chasing toddlers". Not only is that not average, it is way below average. That for all you non-math types is less than the 25th percentile. You're supposed to walk 10,000 a day. I would be in remedial Gym Class if there was one for rotund pre-menapausal ladies.

I have fallen far and not-so-fast friends. From running track and torturing myself with cross country in High School it has come to this: my desire to even meander around the block has dwindled to the point that waddling outside my front door to watch the neighbor get new furniture doesn't hold any allure--not that it ever held much.

My problem, besides laziness, is that my appearance never was that important to me. God gave me blue eyes and blond hair and a decent metabolism. Wearing sweat pants and going to school with wet hair didn't matter--the raw material got me through. Youth is wasted on the young, all right. I saw the writing on the wall though: my genetics spelled disaster for adulthood, so I joined punishing sports to stave off the inevitable.

The inevitable happened. Life and death and stress and fatigue later, I stare miserably at my pedometer wondering how I can get more steps on there without moving. Rocking back and forth while sitting in my chair doesn't work--I just checked.

Dying fat, ain't pretty, not that you know or care at that point. After spending more than a year in a disection lab, I vowed never to get so obese that a med student would throw up in disgust when the sheet was removed to "forward science". The nasty lungs of one cadaver cured my Marboro smoking Russian friend.

Me? I'm an optimist. My family lives well into their 90s with perfect mental clarity to boot. I figure I've got at least forty years to lose the weight it took twenty to put on and still have twenty years to enjoy my newfound svelt figure.

The Pedometer, like all cruel inventions, will last forty years. It's in a safe place, no worries of overuse or abuse--its attached to my shorts right now.