Perpetual Non-Motion

Now, I don't want everyone to start thinking that LC or LC {blog} is going all-out healthy. Sure, there have been some dubious posts by our inveterate wholesome writer Adrienne Anderson about such healthful topics as bean stock and flaxseed. But we are, have always been, and will always be a full-fat, full-flavor, full-time cooking site. Call them our founding principles.

However, that being said, I had a bit of a fright yesterday. For the past several days, I've been wearing a pedometer as a way of gauging how much improvement there has been in my ability to walk long distances. My physical therapist insists I build up to five miles a day. I started at less than one mile two weeks ago and on Friday was up past two miles. That's about as far as I can go before I'm limping Igor-style because of THE ACCIDENT. But yesterday, I had a busy day at my desk, working on an article for the New York Times and one for Gourmet, not to mention desperately trying to find a way not to touch my manuscript. Now, in PPD (pre-pedometer days), I'd have shouted you down, insisting that I most certainly walk at least two miles during my regular desk-to-kitchen-to desk-to-basement-to-bathroom-to-desk-to-kitchen-to family-room-to-bedroom routine. But I took a look at the old ball and chain attached to my waistband and discovered I had walked less than two-tenths of a mile in more than eight hours! I walked off a whooping 46 calories. Ants cover more ground than that in a busy afternoon.

Positive that the thing was broken, I paced the backyard, only to see the numbers start spinning with every turn. That means for the past decade I've been sitting on this ever-softening butt of mine thinking I was relatively healthy, relatively active, relatively sane. So it's not all the recipe testing or the medication or middle age, or the fact that those freaking people over at Levi's are making 40-inch-waist jeans a lot smaller these days. The truth is, I'm Jabba the Hut presiding over my oversized desk.

So, desk jockeys, beware: Get thee a pedometer immediately, or risk being found one day greasy-haired, dehydrated, and mumbling incoherently because your ass is fused permanently to your chair.

Gotta run. I've got 1.53 more miles to go today.