Stepping on the scale twice is now part of my regular morning ritual.
I haven't mentioned this before but I live on the top floor of my building. It takes exactly 53 steps to get from the first stair to my door. I know because I count them often. I haven't counted this as exercise because I've been walking them long before "this project" and it's never made a dent in my weightiness.
My best friend and her husband helped move me into this place (a blessing from God, I must say). When it was all done, BF Hubbie said "OK. The next time we see you, you'll have a bikini body because of these damn stairs." They've been back three times and, believe me, there's no bikini body here.
I know exactly how much money to spend to keep the groceries to a managable 1-load trip. I also use the totes because you can get more stuffed into them and the handles will go over my shoulders. I try to avoid any extra trips because those stairs just suck. They make the stairs at work look like child's play. I walk down these stairs in the morning and back up them at night when I get home. Sometimes, I will sit in my car and think "Damn. So close yet so far away."
Well, I did something pretty crazy last night. I was flipping through channels and realized that nothing was on TV. Again. [More to Love comes on tonight] Even the reliable syndicated shows were ones I'd seen too many times to sit through again. So, I decided to go for a walk. This means an added trip down The Stairs. Well, what the hell, I want to increase my activity (the calorie consumption thing I learned the other day made me do it). So, I need to find a pair of socks. I look in my drawer and there's one lonely little white sport sock. Hmmm. I obviously haven't needed any for awhile. After digging through the pile of clothes at the foot of my bed-I lack motivation in many areas of my life-I find a pair of sport socks. Woohoo! I put them on and go to grab my tennies.
I know I've been stepping over them for a few weeks. I recently had them for a four-state marathon which I recently embarked on. By marathon, I mean driving from one state to another and then to a third and then back through the second into the fourth then back home. All in 4 days. That's another blog all on its own. I had my tennies with me because this trip involved furniture and big trucks and stuff. Turns out, I wore flip-flops the whole time so I didn't need the tennies. I got home, lived out of my suitcase for a week, and then unloaded everything. The tennies went on the floor. Well, one did, anyway.
I spent 30 minutes looking for my other shoe. I still don't know where the damn thing is. I looked under my bed 3 times. It never appeared. Oh, remarkably, under my bed is very clean. Nothing there at all. Not even a cat toy or furball. I looked under the dressing table. Nothing. I even pulled the suitcase open and, yep, no shoe. How do you lose one tennis shoe?!? I can't make this stuff up, people.
I could have been defeated. I could have just plopped back on the couch and veg'ed. I did not! I persevered! I was now determined to walk and grabbed my flip-flops. Really, these are not the best items to wear when walking for the purpose of walking. Trust me.
I was pretty active for about 45 minutes last night. I had a 5-minute search for socks and lost a 30-minute scavenger hunt for my one tennie. I took 53 steps down to the main level of the building. I went for a 10-minute stroll around the neighborhood parking lot went to the community mailbox and then back to The Stairs. I then took the 53 steps up to my door. In flip-flops. Go me.
I'm eating a little bite-size Twix right now. But one thing has nothing to do with the other.