Walk Into My Fist

Next to the myth of people (women) claiming “I eat whatever I want” when you know good and well that they don’t, the next most irrational anger inducing is that simply walking will melt away pounds.

Yes, I haven’t been able to not watch “I Can Make You Thin” even though I hate motivational speakers almost as much as I hate motivation in general (clearly I have a problem because last night’s episode was making viewers conjure up a happy moment and motivated moment while doing that stupid thumb finger squeezing thing and I came up totally blank. Apparently, I’ve never been appreciably happy or motivated in 35 years).

Metabolism was the focus of Sunday’s show and we were informed that the difference between naturally thin people and fat folks is 2,000 steps a day, the equivalent of 15 minutes walking. Their guinea pig, an obese firefighter, lost 33 pounds in one month just by walking more. Yes, taking stairs and parking further from mall entrances is a cure all. Getting up to turn channels rather than using a remote is probably the undiscovered cure for cancer.

I’m completely a non-fan of fitness but despite being a big TV watcher, internet user and desk job worker, I’m not a total lump either. I’ve already calculated that I walk 30 minutes a day just existing, doing nothing extra: five minutes each way from home to the Carroll St. F station and ten minutes each way from the Fulton St. A to my office (sometimes when I’m tired or it’s raining I take the M from Fulton St. and that would shave off 10 minutes). I work out for an hour minimum at least three times a week, four when I’m in the mood, very rarely five times though it’s been known to happen. I think that’s decent and like to believe it’s better than the average American. But then, I like to believe a lot of things.

So far it hasn’t done shit for me (or it has and I’d be dead otherwise). Maybe I’m walking wrong. Is that possible? Or I could be delusional with the time I’ve estimated being active. I’m not one for big talk and no hard evidence, so I’m going to have to get a stupid pedometer. I do see the logic of wearing one and how that might push you to walk more than you typically would because you’re being measured. So says this SF Gate article which contains a rational tidbit:

“Study participants lost a few pounds over the course of the pedometer trials, which lasted on average 18 weeks, and their systolic blood pressure improved slightly. Researchers said they weren't convinced that the walking was directly related to the weight and blood pressure improvements.”

Note words like few, slightly and weren’t convinced.

Last week a good and well-intentioned friend who is overly concerned about my diabetic condition asked me, “Do you go for walks?” like that would be a great starting point for an invalid like myself. Are you fucking kidding me? The next person who mentions walking like it’s the answer to life’s problems is getting punched in the gnads. I don’t even care if it’s this particular friend whose birthday party starts in 18 minutes.

2 thoughts on “Walk Into My Fist

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