I thought I’d bust out this fancy pedometer today. Sister Erin sent it to me I don’t know how long ago, and I stuck it in the shoebox labeled “sports” in my closet. That’s where I keep quidditch, golfing, and cricket (a.k.a. Heinous Things Invented by British Satan). Spent this past year writing a book and gaining 30 pounds. Yeah, 30. T-H-I-R-T-Y. I’m sure the two are unrelated. Anyway, who cares. So this morning I remembered this pedometer.
At some point circa 1998 I was in the middle of a routine check-up (getting, not giving) and I suggested that walking was a viable form of exercise. My doctor stopped criticizing her mother long enough to snort like a brachycephalic. She was like, “Walking? Walking??? Don’t make me laugh. There are 80 year olds dragging their oxygen tanks up and down the hallways of every hospital in America. They’re taking little breaks from chemo so they can get their walking in. That’s not exercise. A dead person can do that.” And I was like, “WOW, you really don’t like walking, do you?” That lady scared the h*ll out of me, actually.