When I woke up the next morning, I knew exactly where to start.
The days of neglect and inactivity and less-than-ideal food choices had taken their toll. I felt like a blob.
I was due at Mom’s that afternoon, so I sketched out an exercise and eating schedule, deciding there was no time like now to put my plan into action. The inches weren’t about to melt away, but with any luck at all, I’d be able to fit into something other than my stretchy sweatpants in time for the holidays.
I stepped into the bathroom, intending to weigh myself, but one look at my full-faced reflection in the mirror told me everything I needed to know. Seeing the numbers on the scale wouldn’t do anything but send me running for Walgreen’s candy aisle.
No worries. Today was the first day of the rest of my life and I would never be this heavy again. I frowned, remembering this was the exact speech I’d given myself the last three times I’d decided to get in shape.
I fumbled through the medicine cabinet until I found the little gem I’d bought last year.
A pedometer.
I held the cobalt blue beauty in my hand and relived the promise of the infomercial. Ten thousand steps a day would ensure a new, slender, energized me. How difficult could that be to achieve?
I shimmied into my baggiest sweatpants, pulled on my favorite sweatshirt and shoved my feet into my well-worn sneakers. Eyeing my hair in the mirror, I considered the options for taming my out-of-control waves and decided there was no hope. I leaned over at the waist, shook my head, then straightened.
I carefully programmed the pedometer to measure my stride, then I headed out, full of enthusiasm and vigor.
If nothing else, getting some exercise would help keep my mind off of Emma’s birthday and my argument with Diane. Losing the weight I’d gained might actually be easier than negotiating a truce.
Five minutes later, however, I fantasized about calling a cab to take me home.
No matter.
Surely I was well on my way to racking up my ten thousand steps. I pulled the pedometer off the waistband of my sweats and glared at it.
Three hundred and fifty-seven steps. That was it?
Let’s see now. Three hundred and fifty-seven was a hell of a long way from ten thousand. At this rate, I’d have to do what I’d just done another...another...how many times?
I had no idea.
Sweat blossomed on my upper lip. I dragged my sleeve across my face, refastened the pedometer and marched on.
My feet hurt, my hair had grown big enough to be visible in my peripheral vision, and I had a catch in my side that couldn’t be good.
When I stepped on a pebble and twisted my ankle, I did an about face and headed for home. I might have failed at my first attempt to hit my goal, but there was something to be said for self-preservation.
As I rounded the corner of my street, I dared another peek at the pedometer from hell. Each time I’d checked it during the walk, the readout had proclaimed far fewer steps than I knew I’d taken. How could I rely on an inaccurate pedometer?
I squinted at it now. Eighteen hundred. I blinked and looked again, thinking I’d missed a zero.
Still eighteen hundred.
Who could actually do the ten thousand, and why would they want to?
I bounced the little cobalt blue device in my palm, considering my options.
I glanced around. The only sign of life on the street was a moving van parked a few doors down.
I made my decision and took action, letting the pedometer slip between my fingers. It hit the sidewalk and bounced once before I stomped down, twisting my foot, crushing the tiny plastic torture device to pieces.
All of the emotions of the previous days and weeks joined forces, morphing into anger--hot, raw, unadulterated, glorious anger.