I’m Not Lovin’ It

mcdFour hours later

My car still smells like French Fries

McDonald’s Drive Thru

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph by Alpha © 2009 Creative Commons

A Conversation with my Fitbit

fitbitCongratulations! You have taken 5426 steps today. That’s 54% of your goal!

Awesome, and it’s only my first day.

But it’s 5:00. Shouldn’t you be walking or something?

I forgot  to put you on this morning. Cut me some slack.

That’s what they all say. Get moving.

I went to the grocery store without you. Don’t you think I walked a few steps doing that?

Says you. Do you have any corroborating witnesses to attest to the number of steps you took?

Never mind.

That’s what I thought.

I also ran with my husband. Two miles, as I recall.

That’s already included, which, by the way, means you really need to get walking.

It was really cold out. Did I mention that, Fitbit? I went running when it was really cold out.

Cry me a river. But please walk while you’re doing it. I don’t want to have the same talk with you an hour from now.

What about housework? I climbed the stairs 22 times in the last three hours. That’s laundry, cleaning, and poor planning. Doesn’t that get some type of multiplier? I also spent an hour ironing my husband’s shirts.

Did you walk in place while ironing?

Blink. Blink.

You aren’t helping yourself here.

 

Listen here, Fitbit. I’m a writer, so I’m writing. That’s what writers do. It sort of a sedentary job.

Hemingway was a writer, and he got up from his desk for a shot of  something at least once every hour or so. He also ran with bulls.

Only once a year. The running with the bulls part, that is. I run three days a week. I also drink three days a week. It’s healthier that way.

Look, I’m the Fitbit, not the Bentbit, and did I mention, you’ve taken 5426 steps today. That’s 54% of your goal! That’s an “F” by the way. The programmers make me put the exclamation point in.

Man, that’s harsh. You knew that would get to me, didn’t you.

Listen sunshine, if you can’t walk and talk at the same time, shut up.

Fine.

Congratulations! You’ve climbed one set of stairs today! That’s the equivalent of the world’s tallest cornstalk.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph by Pete Markham © 2012 Creative Commons

 

 

I may be crazy, but at least I don’t look crazy

My husband is a man of science. If you want to move him, show him the data. He approaches most things in life that way. Research, test, measure, refine. He is a spreadsheet ninja.

I operate more instinctively, which is not to say that I’m a risk taker. My instincts are just as likely to say that looks like a good way to break a bone as it is to say that could be kind of cool.

I have decided that it is time for me to stop eating like a 12-year-old. He has decided that man was not intended to wear shoes, even while running.

I’m working with a wellness coach who has me eating quinoa, juicing and cutting down on my unhealthy coffee habit. I have no data. I haven’t asked for any. When my coach talks about her approach to food, I think to myself  I want to feel like that.

My husband runs though our neighborhood at 4:30 a.m. in bare feet with a lamp on his head. He’s been tracking his pace while altering his stride. He now runs as fast as he did when he was twenty. I think to  myself I want to feel like that, only with shoes and not at 4:30 a.m.

I don’t expect that any amount of data will get me to run without shoes on. I’ve broken two toes in barefoot freak accidents (I mean really, who breaks a toe tripping over their own Teva), and saw my best friend step on a nail in bare feet when I was ten. Both have scarred me irrevocably.  DSW just sent me a $50 discount certificate, and I swear it’s because they were afraid I might be thinking about it. I think they have nothing to worry about, and that I have some shopping to do.

Last night I asked my husband for a tea kettle for Christmas so I wouldn’t have to microwave my water anymore. He sighed. I have no data, I just want to honor the tea. I want to feel like that.  The tea kettle is $15. It’s a lot cheaper than the juicer. I suspect I ought to start getting my data ready for that one.

Interestingly, barefoot running requires special “non shoes” for winter. Frostbite and all that. I’ll put it on his list. Ironically, it’s a spreadsheet.

Words by J. B. Everett