Devon and I are trying to get in shape and lose weight along with most of America, and we’re giving the Fitbit a shot. It appeals to the data geek in Devon because it tracks all his activity for the day and helps him log food and tells him how many calories he needs to eat. It does the same thing for me, except that it also reminds me that the only activity I’ve done all day is walk to and from the coffee pot.
The Fitbit tells me that if I do nothing all day, I can eat 1066 calories. 1066 calories isn’t a lot. I can drink 1066 calories in beer in one night. So I need to move.
I want to lose 10 pounds. Ten pounds isn’t a ton of weight, which is part of the problem. It makes me lazy. I think, “I only need to lose 10 pounds. I can totally eat peanut butter for lunch. Peanut butter with a side of cheddar cheese and a lard glaze. I’ll make it up tomorrow.” And then tomorrow comes and maybe I eat a couple of eggs for breakfast and some soup for dinner, but it doesn’t make up for the peanut-butter-cheese-lard souffle from the day before. And the cycle continues.
I’m going to start blaming my squishiness on baby weight. I was pregnant for 6 weeks, but I should get something out of that. At the very least, I can make people really uncomfortable. Conversations would go something like this:
Me: I really need to lose this baby weight.
Them: You have a baby?
Me: No. It died at six weeks.
Them: OMG. Your 6-week-old died?
Me: No. My embryo. I was six weeks. Pregnancy math is weird, so I was pregnant for more like two weeks, because the calendars count shagging time.
Them: You couldn’t possibly have gained baby weight in two weeks.
Me: Are you telling me I’m a liar about my dead-baby weight?
Them: Err…I don’t know what to say. I think I should go.
Me: Yes. I think we’re done here.
I’m pretty sure I’m a sociopath. But fun at parties!