For me, Christmas was a kaleidoscope of all kinds of wonderful; laughter, presents, family, friends, and food.
Mostly food, I’m thinking.
The kaleidoscope has, of course, stopped turning and it is over.
And in my house, as I’m sure in every other house on my street and on your street and out in the country where there are only fields and forests, everything that spells Christmas has disappeared. It’s in storage and that’s a good thing.
But, I’m sad to say some things you cannot store away.
This year, as December has given way to January, I discovered one unwanted little Christmas gift that simply won’t go away.
It seems in the happy season of cookies, chocolates and cake which all add up to calories, a few extra pounds have crept onto my person.
“No,” I argue with scale, as I peer nearsightedly at the alarming new number that jumped out with alarming clarity. “You are so wrong. You are lying.”
But, it turns out either all the scales were lying or I was in denial, which, of course, leads to lying.
After I got over the denial thing and allowed some time for mourning, I decided to get proactive.
I quit eating all the Christmas goodies (okay, that was easy, everything was already eaten), and told myself to take my self, extra pounds included, to the gym.
I also bought a pedometer.
The pedometer is so cute. It’s this tiny scrap of nothing that will measure how many steps you actually take in a day.
Apparently, if you do 10,000 steps you are right in step with active people who step a lot and not just to the fridge and back.
I bought it with my usual optimism born of a natural instinct to do the easy thing first.
But, apparently, you can’t just buy a pedometer and expect to lose weight, just like you can’t just drive by the gym, and say you’ve been there.
Really! Who set those rules?
With forced cheerfulness, I gingerly took the cute little pedometer out of its packaging which took exactly four hours and 23 minutes as it was secured in this childproof packaging that no one could open without the aid of a cutting tool.
Once I got it out, I discovered I really had no idea how to set the thing, even after I quit trying to read the French side of the instruction book.
Luckily, my daughter-in-law knew how to set it. She’s good at stuff like that. She set it quickly, efficiently and correctly and handed it back to me almost immediately.
“Thanks, I think,” I murmured, somewhat aghast. Now what? I have to actually get up and start stepping, I whined.
I’ve had the pedometer for about a week now. And I’ve stepped. I’ve stepped on ice and through snow banks and onto the treadmill at the gym. I’ve stepped up and down the stairs and from my car to the office. I’ve stepped to the grocery store and to the mailbox and to Tim Horton’s for coffee. I’ve stepped, stepped and stepped some more.
And every night before I go to bed, I take off the pedometer to check and see if I have made the required 10,000 steps. And, every night, I discover I have not.
It is very discouraging.
But, really I am very close. So close.