There are approximately 3,428 reasons for me to lose weight. The top 20 of these are written about regularly on all manner of mommy, health, feminist and click-bait blogsites. I see myself in the stories all the time.
See, I can totally related to the person who hates flying because they take up more than their fair share of the too-small rows in a plane. And the person who walks past the gaggle of thin young people who begin to whisper and giggle, and is pretty sure that even though they aren’t pointing, the giggling is about them.
I can talk intelligently about the dangers of diabetes, heart disease, and any number of issues that are related to obesity. I can prattle on about how being fat makes you feel ugly, not to mention guilty when there are so many people who don’t know where or where their next meal will come.
Then there’s the snoring. And don’t even get me started on the clothes. And several hundred pictures that are full of friends, smiles, and wonderful memories… but always awaken that voice that says, “I wish….”
But reason number 3,249 is a date looming at the end of September. Yep, it’s one of those birthdays that marks a decade.
About 2 weeks ago, after several weeks of false starts and failed efforts to get serious about small first steps (just moving more and eating better), I finally decided I needed a goal. Maybe one of those virtual marathon things that you do over time by counting steps and activity.
After some research, I ordered one of those health tracker wearables. I figured it would be like the old pedometer things but without the need to track manually.
Oh no… I got so much more than that. I now have a minder. A tiny little nag that clips onto my belt loop. And because the app/website that came along with it asked for baseline information and goals, as well as my name, it greets me and acts happy to go for a long walk.
And, it asks me for nutrition information, so that the mathemagical formulas in the app can tell me whether or not I’m “in the zone” for my slow and steady work on the number on the scale.
Here’s what is crazy: I hate details like calories and serving sizes and all that. I am prone to periods of hyper-focus followed by monkey-brained distractions that keep me in front of the screen for far too long at a stretch. But this silent little tracking device with its numbers and icons and 15-character notes of encouragement makes me want to park at the far edge of the lot, eat the smaller amounts of the right kinds of food and haul my butt up and down stairs.
Turns out I can do this, I just need a minder. And an app with pretend badges.