I blame the machines.
The wristband wanted to record my weight and height. I guessed. All the weight lost some years ago has been refound (thanks to volunteering for taking my mental ‘point counting’ energy, and to Lidl’s baked goods and tasty, cheap, wine for taking my willpower). I added in the weight I was when I started Weight Watchers, sure I’d be there or thereabouts. Peak Speccy.
The wristband is mainly to keep tabs on my heart rate, but it counts steps, and I have a daily target. We all know that simply having a random target is a motivator. On a dry day, a wee walk may be considered before collapsing on the sofa with a box set. On a wet day, all bets are off. I’m not daft.
We wandered down an elderly, panelled, corridor, and gawped at the artwork from local schools- top scoring in exams artwork. Hard work, inspiration and talent. Go, young people.
It wasn’t a long visit, but it was challenging and thought provoking. I was buoyed and full of energy. Until I followed up on a plan. We’d be passing the sports centre on the way home, so why not call and pay a machine to tell me my height and weight?
Whoever thought that would be a good idea?
Peak Speccy has been surpassed.
There were no hoardes of people, but I was humiliated and horrified. I’d let my weight get away from me again. Equally, I felt ridiculous that I cared so much. I’ve been spending my limited energy doing things rather than recording every mouthful- surely that’s a good thing? But still. I’m too big. My default position is cuddly.
Instead of skipping home, inspired by history and art, I felt every step, and went straight to bed, my place of safety. I needed to lick my wounds, to recalibrate and recover.
I’m off for a walk.