Post-show bad-eating, booze-swilling, and couch-reading, has added another requirement to the Super-Awesome-Life-Plan-Reboot.
…In the end, it was cheaper to not buy an entire wardrobe in a fatter size, than to invest in a thing which can actually shrink me.
Up til now, I’ve always relied on free fitness apps to get my ass in gear, my body watered, my eating reigned in, and my booze intake under the “daily alcoholic ” label. But with no theatre at night, no line-learning pacing by day, no show-specific in-shape requirement, and stacks and stacks of plays to read and break down for monologues, I’ve become such a sedentary blob, my body is literally oozing up and out of my clothing like I’m the Michelin Man.
Currently at the heavest weight-mass in my life…it’s really a lot not good.
…Obviously, I needed a new plan for that too.
…And so: welcome The Fitbit.
…A thing I must wear in punishment, to remind me constantly…like a voluntary self-branding. Because when thin people wear a Fitbit, it’s cuz they’re conscientious and, well… “fit.” When a chunky person wears it, it’s like a final plea for help. It means we know we cannot be trusted to moderate and motivate and follow thru on the other eight million free ways to keep in shape. We have to drop a chunk of change on a thing that sits on our person and lights up and buzzes and links to our phones and computers, so no matter where we go: it’s there. Watching us.
…Like that 80’s stalker song…
…Every move I make, every breath I take, he’ll be watching me…
…Which is exactly WHY he was necessary.
A wearing, staring object that cost money. I cannot afford to ignore it. I must live up to it’s requirements, or like a child, it will shit all over me…with terrible stats, bad sleep, an an embarrassing tan line if I take it off and pretend it never existed…just to escape the wearing-shame.
…Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, don’t think I haven’t planned. I understand the responsibility now before me, I get the motivational heft…I have already turned down sodas, Costco muffins, Hawaiian chips, and fast food of every archetype, and that is only at work…since Monday.
(…Im pretty sure it’s Tuesday now. So…that might explain a major source of how I got so goddamn fat to begin with…but anyway, I digress…)
Point is: I smell/see/hear the taunting foods, I look down at m’damn wrist, I whisper, “oh shut up,” or “effe you,” and take another swig of water.
It may be only day two, but it’s better than ground zero.
…15,847 steps…and counting…
(* In all seriousness, this gadget is pretty freakin sweet. Glad I joined the fad on this one…accountability is tops!)