Sunday Newscape Magazine

In one of those “What was he thinking?” moments that frequently seem to afflict men, my husband gave me a pedometer for Mother’s Day last May. I put it up on a shelf next to the blender I received for Valentine’s Day. I obviously need to get the word “jewelry” tattooed on my forehead as a subtle hint.

I could have used the pedometer last summer, when I had every intention of walking off some weight. Somehow I managed to convince myself I was getting enough exercise hanging out in the pool eating fudgesicles. Hey, they were diet fudgesicles.

Summer came and went, and now the calorie-laden holidays are approaching. So once again, I am determined to walk myself thin. OK, I’ll be happy to simply walk myself a little less fat. Actually, I’ll be content just to pound the pavement enough to allow some guilt-free eating.

To alleviate my guilt, I need proof of pavement pounding. That’s why I recently pulled the pedometer out of its box and read the accompanying brochure. It claimed walking 10,000 steps a day burns up to 3,000 calories a week. That’s a lot of pumpkin pie and Christmas cookies. I liked the sound of that. And it got even better. The brochure pointed out restaurant employees walk those 10,000 steps a day doing their jobs, while custodians take nearly 13,000 steps. On most days, I figure I perform the functions of a couple of custodians and several restaurant workers (cook, waitress, busboy and dishwasher) combined. I realized I was already taking the requisite daily steps and don’t even need additional exercise. I just need the knowledge. My hips and thighs will soon be melting away under the power of positive thinking.

To prove it to myself, I clipped the pedometer to my waistband first thing one morning. I walked into the kitchen and made coffee, trotted into the kids’ bedrooms to gently wake them up for school, took the dog outside and went to the laundry room in hopes of finding a clean pair of socks. Then I went back to the bedrooms for a second, slightly less gentle wake up call. Then I dashed to the curb with the garbage that no one else can remember to take out before hurrying back to the bedrooms for a get-your-rear-end-out-of-bed-right-now wake up call.

Once I finally got the kids out of the house, I logged more steps dashing around looking for my car keys. Then I went grocery shopping, where I accidentally knocked the pedometer off my waist while reaching into the frozen foods. It landed in the green bean section and then slid toward the back of the freezer, coming to rest among the corn. I had to climb almost all the way in to retrieve it, enduring alarmed looks from nearby shoppers.

At home, I made six separate trips carrying in groceries and logged more steps putting them away. Then I collapsed on the couch and checked the pedometer, sure I’d already taken at least 5,000 steps that morning. Sadly, I had not even hit 500.

Obviously, the pedometer was not working properly. Maybe it was damaged by its foray into the freezer. Or maybe my husband gave me a deficient device. I tossed it on the couch and went in search of a phone book, flipping through until I came to the page listing tattoo artists. The word “jewelry” will look very nice on my forehead, just in time for Christmas.

© Jackie Papandrew 2008, All Rights Reserved www.jackiepapandrew.com.