You know those digital bracelet fitness thingies that everybody wears? The ones that are connected to social media like an umbilical cord? I can’t find mine. I have a feeling it might be at the bottom of a chip bag, covered in shame crumbs.
It is unfortunate that I wasn’t wearing it today though, because it was a banner day for exercise, yet sadly I have no proof. My tracker overlord of exercise measurement was not on me to bear witness on the internet.
My day of fitness started early this morning. I executed a leaping sprint to the toilet that would have registered as 467 steps on my tracker as I waited for the bathroom doing the pee pee dance. Then, I completed the equivalent of a 200 meter hurdle race to the coffee machine. Gracefully jumping clear of school bags, laundry piles and dogs, I was first to the machine today. I earned another few dance steps toward my total as I celebrated in front of the fridge. I got the last of the milk bitches!
Later in the morning, when I paced furiously in front of my wardrobe for a good ten minutes, I would have registered a maxed out heart rate on my tracker, as well as 270 footsteps and stretches trying on clothes that had shrunk in the dryer. Screw you dryer.
Later on, I had a doctor’s appointment so off I went, excited for coffee shop at the hospital where they had plenty of milk for my giant cup of brew. Then I spent 20 minutes driving around trying to find a parking spot, thus getting my optimum heart rate back into the zone again. My tracker would have credited me for a god damned 5k run considering the vein that was bulging out of my temple as I screamed in my head. Then, if you can picture the fact that parking spots numbered 1 through 300 are pretty freakin’ close to the main doors, also picture my car not anywhere near those spots.
No, I ended up driving to the outer limits of the known universe before I found the Holy Grail: the last parking spot in ten acres of stalls. It was number 919, three lots over and up the hill. I spotted it, but so did the little old dude in a hat in his cream Caddy. We made hostile eye contact. I revved my engine, he flapped his gums in shock for a quick second and revved his. His hesitation cost him. I hammered onto the gas pedal, flew up to his bumper in a game of parking lot chicken and screeched into my spot. More heart rate points for that maneuver. I got a few bonus steps when I hustled to the pay booth as he tried to run me over. 345 running steps, my tracker would have loved that.
I clutched the parking receipt in my sweating fist and began the long march to the front doors. My tracker would have logged 3400 steps plus a bonus for angry quick marching and prolific swearing. Finding new words for “shit” takes energy you know. I think I burned off a whole ice cream sandwich as I dodged cars who were still trying to find a spot. They were angry buggers and moved fast when they thought they could kill me for my keys and take my spot.
After my appointment, I emerged to the ongoing wasp nest of frustrated cars and made my way up the hill. Yes, it was up hill both ways. The return trip to spot 919 would have logged 7493 steps to my credit. I don’t know how it was suddenly double the distance, but it just was so shut up about it.
I still had errands to do, so I stopped at the mall on the way home. I walked another 654 steps to find a bloody store that carried bras not made for 12 year olds to hold their brand new pistachios. Then I found the yoga mom store, but they only had sports bras, which would be the equivalent of replacing my metal infrastructure (that is not unlike the Eiffel tower of bras), with intricately woven overcooked spaghetti noodles. More heart rate elevation.
I gave up on finding a reinforced undergarment in the land of spandex, and made my way to the only place that could assuage my frustration, the food court. 243 steps.
Clutching a greasy burger, I found a table and began to eat my reward for the rigorous exercise I had just completed. I briefly contemplated the fact that my tracker wasn’t aware of the level 10 grease bomb I was ingesting, but then I tamped the thought down and happily munched the coronary inducing sandwich with a side of curly fries.
Finally home after my busy day, I completed another 87 steps from the driveway up the stairs. As I heaved my backside onto the couch I decided it wasn’t worth the extra 17 steps to try to dig my tracker out of whatever bag of carbs it ended up in when it slipped off my wrist.
I gave a brief thought to all my friends on social media. They would be wondering why I wasn’t posting my exercise results for the day?! I mean by ten o’clock everybody else has boasted about their runs, walks and bikes, some even with pictures of sweaty spandex, yet where am I?
My tracker is languishing at the bottom of a Doritos bag, and I don’t have the will to do anything about it. So now it is resting in peace as its battery runs low. It makes not a single peep about the internet and no longer gives a shit about my steps.
For my part, I draw a deep breath and relish the accomplishment of a health focused day, undo my pants and take off my bra.
For the win.
(This post originally appeared on Magnolia Ripkin Advice Blog)