A few months ago, I set off on yet another diet. I was doing all right. My daughter, bless her little heart, wanted to help me along, so on my birthday, she gave me a gizmo called a Fitbit. It’s a computer that comes in a little, plastic wrist strap. More attractive holders are available to purchase, bracelets, necklaces, anklets and such.
You sync Mr. Fitbit to your computer, and it keeps track of what you eat, how many steps a day you walk, how many calories you burn, etc, etc. Except my computer is old. I went online to the “help” page and had a long chat with “Gus.” He tells me to sync with Mr. Fitbit, my computer needs Bluetooth. Bluetooth didn’t exist when this computer entered my life.
Thinking I’d just download what I needed, I went online. It costs around $29.
What is Mr. Fitbit, the Barbie doll of today?
That ticked me off, but here I sat, with a useless bit of technology that I was sure my daughter had spent too much money on, and I couldn’t let it go to waste. I called the help line again and had a chat with “Matt.” He walked me through syncing Mr. Fitbit to my telephone. It worked! What a relief!!!
Mr. Fitbit is set for me to walk 10,000 steps a day. Now, I walk my long-legged dog, Abigail, for a half hour in the morning and another half-hour in the late afternoon, and that combined with my normal steps from the kitchen to the office, usually add up to 8,000. Those last 2,000 steps hang over my head like the sword of Damocles. Some days, I pick up the leash and the dog and I go the extra mile. Abigail loves it. By the time I get my 10,000 steps, I’m not really walking, I’m trudging. Somedays, I don’t make it and go to bed feeling guilty, like I let Mr. Fitbit down.
Anyway, I’ve lost 20 pounds and am tossing my “fat clothes” into the Goodwill bin. Dr. Phil says to get rid of them. He’s right. Buying new clothes in a smaller size is a great kick. Buying clothes in a larger size is horrifying … every time.
My weight goal has nothing to do with a number on a scale. I want to lose that bulge of fat at the top of my waistline, what they call “heart attack fat.” When I started the diet, I thought five pounds ought to do it. Not even close. I’m an old hand at dieting, done it over and over all my life. I know the first five is usually easy and usually water weight. So … ten pounds ought to do it.
Nope! Okay, the deadly pudge is a little smaller, so I’ll go for fifteen pounds. That ought to do it.
Another month has ticked by. I’m losing about two pounds a week. Surely my heart attack fat will be gone soon. Abigail and I will continue to trudge up and down these hills until it is, and then I have a nice surprise for my daughter.
I know just what to give her for Christmas.