Day 43
This will be a little-bitty blog about new ways to exercise and accessorize (and by the way, I'm much prefer accessorizing).
Like many of you, I woke up with a long list of things to do. Saturday morning. My once-a-month maid was coming over and I needed to clean the house before she got here (I don't want her to think I live like a slob). I've always thought of housework as a chore, until I calculated that an hour of it will burn 212 calories.
I decided my next step should be to figure out how much I actually move each day. So I asked Mr. Big (my 6-foot, 5-inch fiancé) if he would run out to get me a pedometer. He reminded me that it's not 1985 and perhaps I should look into something a little more high-tech. I remembered one of my many social friends had posted something about Fitbit. It's basically a big rubber band that you strap snugly around your wrist. There's a little tracker inside that somehow understands your motions. There's even some finely tuned algorithm for step counting. How it actually works is way beyond my mathematical comprehension. All I know is it syncs up whenever I'm close to my computer, and if I tap it, little lights illuminate (one light for every 20-percent increment of my daily goal). When I reach my goal, Fitbit will vibrate (which I consider a bonus feature).
Fitbit set me (or actually, Mr. Big) back about a 100 bucks. But that's nothing compared to the money I have thrown away over the years on gym memberships I never used, late-night infomercials I bought into, and unlimited monthly passes I used exactly twice.
I was so excited by the three little lights I earned during the day, I decided my Fitbit isn't coming off until the pounds do. And even though it clashed with the cocktail dress I was wearing out for the evening, I had already made up my mind to make a fitness statement instead of a fashion statement.
So off we went to a restaurant. Mr. Big had been planning this for weeks (long before I made my "45 Days Until 45" diet declaration). We had reservations at the chef's table inside the kitchen at Scarpetta, an amazing restaurant at the Montage in Beverly Hills.
I couldn't turn down Mr. Big, and it would be rude not to eat what Executive Chef Freddy Vargas was dishing up right in front of us. What was I to do? Simple. I said no to the bread basket, limited myself to one glass of wine and did not devour my dessert. The rest of the menu was actually quite responsible. Portions were small (we're not talking the Cheesecake Factory here). I ate all my veggies, enjoyed the Chilean sea bass and gave half of my pasta plate to Big (he did not complain).
Look, dieting should not be all about deprivation. You don't want to be the girl pretending to enjoy a plate of lettuce, when everyone else is raving about the mushroom ravioli. I don't dine out every night, and on the occasion that I do, I am going to eat tidbits of whatever is on my plate (and trust that my Fitbit will count every time I lift my fork as some form of exercise).