musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

You Fit Bit You — January 20, 2016

You Fit Bit You

fitbit

So last week I turned 46. Oh my actual god.

In a bid to make me feel better Middlest pointed out that I was probably only half way through. Life I think he meant.  If I am honest that depressed me even more. I pointed out back that the first ‘half’ is probably better than the second. All things considered. Even if I live as long as 92.

Of course my children maintain that being a kid is just dreadful. All of us who are no longer kids know this to be a falsehood. How many of us wouldn’t go back in an instant now that we can see how little fun being a grown up actually is versus our perception of it when we were ten.

Once I get my reluctant children to bed of an evening they imagine me up to all sorts of fun. I don’t believe they consider emptying the dishwasher fun. And so, like me, they are going to be sorely disappointed by adulthood.

Anyhow. I have long since stopped ‘celebrating’ birthdays. I am at that difficult age. I no longer look forward to a new year in the manner of a ten year old. And I have not achieved an age where I am to be congratulated on ‘getting this far’. I imagine I will like birthdays again when I have reached 92. They will be an accomplishment. Rather than just a grim reminder of another year passed by.

Even so my husband made an effort present wise. Thanks hun.

At some point I must have mentioned my desire for a fit bit. Probably not to him. Well maybe by accident in a kind of involuntary way when watching TV of a Sunday evening. I was ,of course, thinking of Poldark. With or without a scythe. Or clothes. Not fussed really. (And no I care not that they used make up to accentuate his assets. Really people (and by ‘people’ I mean middle aged men) who are you kidding? To accentuate assets assets are needed in the first place. And plenty of those were on offer in those Cornish fields). Or at a push Benedict Cumberbatch. Sans deerstalker. Or that guy who has played a gay Renaissance painter and now some Russian aristocrat on War and Peace. Brooding either way…

Anyway whatever. What I actually got was a small black piece of plastic and a pink wrist band. It was then I fully grasped the importance of punctuation. He had bought me a fitbit. Note no space.

Well anyway nice thought. Although with worrying under tones. Maybe he was wishing I had better assets. For the accentuation of. No amount of make up, or stepping, is going to help there matey. Myopia will though. Eventually.

In case you live on Mars here is a synopsis of the fitbit. You wear the pink (I don’t think it has to be pink by the way) wrist band after charging and inserting the piece of black plastic. It then tells you how many steps you take in a day. That is it in a nutshell. Mine also tells you if you sleep well or not. And you can set yourself goals. And talk to other fitbitted people. And even challenge them. To duels of step walking.

I have worn mine since half way through Sunday.

Here are my observations to date.

It is remarkably easy to clock up the recommended 10,000 steps per day. Either it massively over estimates mine. Or some people are seriously lazy. My average count by 9am is 3k. That is just morning routine stuff. With three kids. And laundry.

It is making me more likely to do housework. In fact cleaning is starting to become attractive. Very worryingly.

Never, ever, ever accept a Daily Challenge. The person asking you to join their Challenge already has at least 20 thousand steps planned for their day. You cannot hope to compete. Especially when waiting in for a sofa delivery.

People who walk weirdly on the spot are wearing a fitbit. And partaking of a daily challenge set by someone doing a half marathon.

The app in my I pad does not register steps that I do whilst carrying the I pad. And yes I have checked. And so now I know what one circuit of my kitchen diner is. Step wise. With or without I pad. Without about 23. With zero. Odd time/ space dimension stuff happening there.

I now try not to move at all in the shower. The fitbit is not water proof and so I have to remove it. I do not want to waste precious steps abluting.

I have no idea when to charge it. Perhaps when I am in the shower? I will have to sacrifice all those lovely statistics about my sleep in order to ensure I do not run out of juice mid step count. Would anything be worse? If only the provided charger was not three inches long I could plug myself in as I sleep. But it is. Three inches long.

And ah the statistics. As you may know I love statistics. Even if they are damn lies. As soon as this is published I will be pouring over bar charts and maps cooing over the geographical spread of my readership. And so the fitbit adds another statistical frisson to my day. Lovely.

Interestingly my increased level of senior moments are increasing my steps. Which will hopefully reduce the incidence of my senior moments. Exercise supposedly being good for mental agility. But then that will reduce my steps. Cool circular argument. I must have burned 500 of the buggers scouring my house last night for that three inch charger. I didn’t find it. Until this morning. When the replacing fairy had put it on the dining table. Weird.

And so there you have it. I like it. Not sure I will get much fitter. But it is enlightening. Being a ‘stay at home’ mum is not sedentary. Nice.

 

 

 

How old? — January 12, 2016

How old?

age

Yesterday in a meeting some one took ten years off me. Age came up. I can’t remember how. And she was apparently genuinely amazed I was 45. She had me pegged at mid thirties.

Although I believe a trip to the opticians may be in order. For my fellow meeting attendee. I was actually quite flattered.

It is a long time since someone, anyone, underestimated my age. Don’t get me wrong. On a day to day basis I don’t expect people to randomly come up to me and express surprise and incredulity at my advancing years. However nice that may be.

But historically I have always had an issue with looking too young. Once a boyfriend and I decided to go to see a film. We got wet walking from the train station to the cinema. Which probably didn’t help. I don’t remember which film it was. But it was a Certificate 15.

They wouldn’t sell me a ticket. I got out my driving licence. We were on holiday from university. Second year. So I must have been at least 20. They still didn’t believe me. Eventually I think we saw something else. Which must have been a PG as 12s didn’t exist back in the days of yore.. Slightly embarrassing.

I never bothered to try to buy alcohol anywhere. It just wasn’t worth the effort.

Even well into my twenties and once, flatteringly, in my thirties I was regularly asked for ID when buying anything considered contraband to under 18s. This makes me sound like I was a bit of a rebel buying top shelf mags and cigarettes. Actually it was things like kitchen knives and super glue and DVDs…but hey feel free to big up my past as you see fit.

Also whenever I turned up at a meeting at work when I was managing large housing company’s banking needs I could see it flit across their eyes. ‘She is never old enough to do this!’. ‘Where is the real manager?’. Sometimes I don’t think I ever won them round. Or it took an awful lot of blarney….

When I was pregnant with Eldest the midwife had to ask my age twice as she thought she had misheard my date of birth.

And so my driving licence was always about my person. It still is. I no longer need it.

Sometime. Some undefined time. A bit ago. Probably between Eldest and Youngest or shortly thereafter. People stopped asking. People stopped expressing surprise at my age.

It is actually quite depressing. If I was ever a cashier at a supermarket just every so often I would ask someone for ID just to make their day. Even if they looked as old as I clearly do.

And so yesterday was heartening. The person in question is clearly very bad at judging age. But still it was flattering.

Thanks.

 

 

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