Finally – some help on my one woman war against cheese

I’ve been waging my one-woman war against cheese for some time now, largely without any support, as, let’s face it, everyone loves cheese and they don’t want to hear someone telling them to stop eating it because it’s full of fat. But, now, I’m no longer alone. The Physician’s Committee for Responsible Medicine (PCRM) has jumped on the bandwagon, with an anti-cheese billboard campaign in Albany, New York. The no-nonsense billboard campaign features photos of folks with obese abds and thighs, with the captions “…your abds/thighs on cheese…” You can read the full story here, but the gist of it is this:  cheese is the number-one source of saturated (“bad”) fat in the American diet; we eat too much of it, and it’s making us fat, according to physician, food researcher and founder of PCRM Neal Barnard, MD.

Dr. Barnard goes on to further enlighten readers on the evils of cheese “…Americans eat more than 33 pounds of cheese per person per year—three times more than they did in 1970—and our country is more obese than ever.” and “…One-fourth of an average 12-inch cheese pizza contains nearly 13 grams of fat, including 6 grams of saturated fat and 27 milligrams of cholesterol. An ounce of cheddar contains 9 grams of fat, including 6 grams of saturated fat.” Read more from Dr. Barnard here and here, and you may be ready to jump on the anti-cheese bandwagon with me.

Of course, I’ve said all of this before in America’s Love Affair with Cheese, but it helps to have the full weight of an official-sounding physician’s group behind me. Look out America, the war against cheese is back!

© Huffygirl 2012

Related articles

• Billboards Slather On The Guilt With Anti-Cheese Campaign (npr.org)
• Why America is Overweight (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• Why America is Overweight, part II (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• Why America is Overweight, part III (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• Why America is Overweight, Part IV (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• My doctor’s office thinks I’m fat (and I don’t even EAT cheese)

Confessions of a bad patient

I confess I’m a bad patient. Well, not bad in the sense of non-compliant. I’m not one of those people who doesn’t take all of her antibiotic, and then saves the left-over antibiotic in order to incompletely treat the next illness. (Yes, I know who you are.) No, I’m not THAT kind of bad patient. But, I’m not a patient patient. I think of myself as  a hardy, resilient person, ready to bounce back from every setback. Those rules for recovery apply to other people, not to me. Being ill, or in my case, recovering from surgery, seems like such  a waste of time that I’ll push myself to recover faster and better, even if, well even if it just plain wears me out. I just  want to be done with it.

I had surgery on my shoulder just over two weeks ago. Originally the doctor said I “…could probably go back to work after two weeks,” so two weeks to  the day I scheduled myself back at work. It didn’t take me very long to find out that was a bad idea. About nine o’clock I was ready to put my head down on the desk and take a little nap, then again at ten, and eleven, and so on until my husband finally came to pick me up from my extra-long half day. The next day when I dutifully went for my two-week follow-up, the doc said, “so when do you think you’ll be ready to go back to work?” No problem doc, already done. Turns out a little too soon, but that’s what happens when you think you’re hardy. I’ll know better next time. Well, maybe.

Two days after surgery I was making muffins in the kitchen, adapting everything to doing it one-handed and coercing my son to help me with stirring and scooping. It made a terrible mess, but better than sitting around doing nothing all day, and we had healthy bran muffins to boot.

My instructions said “no strenuous activity until the follow-up appointment,” but what’s strenuous about a gentle bike ride on the trainer? I worked pretty well until I got done and found out I couldn’t manage to get out of my sweaty clothes in my one-armed state. Hey, I’m sure my husband didn’t mind leaving work to come help me get undressed.

Being a bad patient is probably not all bad. Studies of resiliency have shown that the qualities that resilient people show, such as adaptability, humor, optimism and flexibility help them cope and adjust to stressful situations. If you are not already a resilient person, don’t worry. Resiliency can be learned and cultivated. You can practice adopting the ten qualities of a resilient person, until it become part of you. It’s never too late. (After all, optimism is one of the qualities.) Although, I do admit, that should I ever have surgery again, I’ll definitely take a few things a little slower. Now excuse me – it’s time for my nap.

© Huffygirl 2012

Related articles by Huffygirl:

• Do not be alarmed – I’m okay
• It was the one-armed man
• Aieeehhhhh!
• The#@%*$ rotator cuff

Related articles

• My doctor’s office thinks I’m fat (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• Resiliency, Resilience, Resilient. Three words that will change your life! (inhishandsministries.wordpress.com)

My doctor’s office thinks I’m fat

Huffygirl: the obesity epidemic starts right here

I visited a consultant at a new health care group recently, and it turns out, that they think I’m fat. And, they’re determined to do something about it. Every single stinkin’ time I go there. Yes, obesity is a huge problem in this country, and my doctor’s office is determined to nip it in the bud, starting with the biggest offender – me.

My first time there, as I left the office, the receptionist  handed me a packet of papers and said somewhat sheepishly, “Here’s some information on healthy eating.” My first thought was, “wow, how wonderful that they care about my health as a whole person,” until I got home and looked it over. Turned out these papers were all about obesity and weight loss, and what I must do to start taking care of my obesity problem, today. Really. To say I was insulted was putting it mildly. But I thought I’d be the bigger person. After all, they think I am. So I put it aside. I refused to let my self be annoyed.

Until the next time I went there. Nothing was different about my weight, so turns out, I’m still fat. When I went to leave, there they were again with the fat handout. Now granted, even if I was fat, and, spurned on by their wonderful diet information, had decided to do something about it, chances are, I’d still be fat when I came back four weeks later. And the next time. And the time after that.

So the next time I complained to the doctor, who I must say, had a good 30 pounds on me. “Your people think I’m fat,” I said, “and I’m getting a little offended by it.” Well, she looked at me, looked at my chart, tut-tutted and said “well yes, your numbers don’t quite meet our guidelines, blah, blah” and then she went on to blame the government. Yes, according to her, the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act requires health care providers to provide, among other things, weight loss information to patients who, according to whatever mystery standards they are using, are fat. Then she went on to a well-rehearsed speech about how they are only doing this because of the government, and if I didn’t want to get a fat handout every time I came there, I needed to contact my congressperson, instead of complaining to her. So there. Instead of the lecture, it might have been nice to hear which obesity guidelines they were using that labeled me as fat, as according to BMI (body mass index) I’m still under the wire. But no. Just you’re fat, the government makes us say so, so there.

And so it’s continued. Every time I go there, or to any other office within that health care group, I get the fat handout. The last time I was there, I balked. “Don’t give me those fat papers again, I already have them,” I said to the receptionist on my way out. She started in with the usual diatribe about the government makes us, we have to give them to you, blah, blah, and handed me the fat papers again. In anger, I ripped them off of the stack of papers she gave me, and flung them down on the check-out desk, it turns out, on top of a huge stack of the same fat handout, left by other angry patients.

I have to confess that I am unfamiliar with the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act, and even after reading about it, still do not see where it says in there that I’m fat. I’d be interested to hear from others if any of you have  had similar experiences. In the meantime, I’ve either got to look for a whole new bunch of doctors, or resign myself to being called fat every time I darken their door.

Huffygirl aka Fatgirl

© Huffygirl 2012

More from Huffygirl on exercise and weight:

• Spin doctor
• Grown-up toys
• No, I’m good, I think I’ll climb down now
• Nameste, darn it
• American’s love affair with food
• Target heart rate: turn’s out it is important
• Lake Shore Drive: Open for cycling one day only

Related articles:

• ‘You are way too fat’ flagged as undesirable description of weight: study (news.nationalpost.com)
• The CDC Says 33% Of Americans Are Obese; It’s Time To Take Responsibility (blisstree.com)

Do not be alarmed – I’m okay!

Image via Wikipedia

I had surgery on my right shoulder today. Nothing serious, although it did turn out to have more things wrong in there than anticipated. At the last minute I had thoughts of putting it off for a better time. But there really is no good time when it comes to things like elective surgery. One can always think of some reason why now is a bad time to have it done. So I got up early, showered with pink antibacterial soap, had my husband write “yes” on my right shoulder, and “no !!!!” on my left shoulder, and off we went, where I was scrubbed some more, given an attractive ”one size fits all large people” gown to wear, and bonked into oblivion with multiple kinds of modern-day anesthesia. All this, and back home in time for lunch. 

Surgery has certainly evolved from the good old days when I first studied nursing. Over  thirty years ago this surgery would have been done with a big open incision, and a several-day hospital stay. Or more likely it would not have been done at all, as a male surgeon would have said to me “you’re a middle-aged woman with ‘a little arthritis’ – just live with it.” Of course, it turned out be more than just ‘a little arthritis.’  It was arthritis, calcific tendonitis, a small rotator cuff tear, bursitis and a labral tear, in case you wanted to know.

But meanwhile I’m having a dickens of a time typing this, and just a tiny bit worried that I might be accidentally saying something goofy so soon out of anesthesia, so I’ll stop here. Maybe I’ll post some pictures later in the week, so I’ll warn the squeamish readers now, just in case. Meanwhile, I have even greater respect for blogger buddy Mark, of The Idiot Speaketh, who is bed-bound recovering from foot surgery. My gig sounds like a piece of cake in comparison. Good recovery Mark, and at least now you have someone with whom to commiserate.

Related posts from Huffygirl:

http://huffygirl.wordpress.com/2011/05/21/the-rotator-cuff/

http://huffygirl.wordpress.com/2011/05/24/more-on-the-rotator-cuff-part-ii/

http://huffygirl.wordpress.com/2011/09/24/aiieeeeehhhhh/

Spin doctor

I’m on my bike, pedaling like mad, leaning over the handlebars. The wind is blowing my hair, making it fall in my face. I repeatedly push it back, thinking I really don’t have time for this. I’m too busy working hard at keeping up with everyone else. The cyclists around me seem to be cruising along without much effort, making this ride look really easy. This is one of the hardest rides I’ve ever done. Except, this time, I’m not on out on the road – I’m trying my first spin class.

Huffygirl, fit and ready to go!

I’ve actually attempted spin class before, many years ago, before I started biking.  At that time, I found out I was not fit enough to do an entire class, felt too uncomfortable on the bike saddle (seat), and couldn’t get the bike adjusted to fit me.  But since then, three things have happened: 1.) I’ve achieved enough cardiovascular fitness after four summers of biking, that an hour of spin class should be a cinch; 2.) my gym has gotten new spin bikes with better saddles and better adjustments; and 3) I have the right bike clothes and gear to make spin class easier that I lacked before – mainly cycling shorts and clip-in cycling shoes. Of course, it’s possible to spin in ordinary gym clothes and shoes, but much easier with. And, since I’m taking spin class to maintain my fitness until the next biking season, it makes sense to make spin as much like my usual biking as possible.

Cycling shorts and shoes? Check.

So, I’m giving it another go. Best husband helped me through the bike set-up. I’ve got my water bottle, bike shoes, heart rate monitor, so I should be good to go. This early morning class is a mix of serious cyclists, folks who just want to get their exercise over with before work, and some inbetweeners like me. I’m trying to go out hard and get a good work out, but not overdo it on my first class, but I’m having a hard time striking the balance. Instead of gears, spin bikes have a tension knob – left for looser, right for tighter. It’s hard to gauge how much tension to use for a good workout.  And I’m finding the movement and noise in the small room overwhelming. Everything is moving - wheels turning, fans blowing, people popping  up and down, cranks turning. I don’t know where to look and end up closing my eyes for a good part of the class. And the noise – fans blowing, riders chatting, music blaring. Give me a nice quiet ride outside anytime. But it’s cold outside, so for the next few months, I’ll have to make this class work, or end up riding my trainer in the basement again. Not much of a choice either way. I don’t want to look like a newbie or wuss, and I don’t want to give up and quit like last time, so I’ll have to figure out how to cope.

Did I make it through my first spin class? Find out later on ”Spin Diary.”

© Huffygirl 2011

Related articles

• Taking Your First Spinning Class – Not as Scary as You Think! (fitsugar.com)
• Namaste, darn it! (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• If You Spin, Try Clipping In: Cycling Shoes Rock (fitsugar.com)

The finger

I’m trying to use my middle finger more. No, not for THAT. It’s just that my index finger, aka pointer, the one we all use for everything all day, from mousing and clicking to opening things, dialing the phone, pushing buttons, keyboarding, everything, is showing some arthritis at the distal joint, 

commonly called the DIP. Sigh. That makes me feel old, but this is a common site for arthritis to occur, and most people will get some arthritis in that joint at some point in their lives if they live long enough. So, I’m trying to conserve it. Save Mrs. Pointer for the really important jobs that only pointer fingers can do, and make it last longer. But this is easier said than done. For now, I’m trying to use my middle finger for all these things instead. It  works okay part of the time but it’s slower and takes more concentration. I still haven’t figured out how to hold a pen without using Mrs. Pointer, at least holding it in a way in which I can write legibly and comfortably. If anyone has figured this one out, please let me know.  Anyway, chances are I’ll only keep up these changes until trusty pointer feels better, then I’ll quit. Old habits are hard to break.

Although switching fingers is difficult, it’s not nearly as hard  as trying to use one’s non-dominant hand for writing or other fine motor tasks. Very difficult, but most people can do it if they have to. Some studies suggest  that non-dominant hand use spurs brain development. Here’s the scoop, although I hope you won’t be plagued with pop-ups when you click on this, like I was the first time I tried it.

So develop your brain, and save your digits. Give it a try. Let me know how you do.

 © Huffygirl 2011

Aiieeeeehhhhh!

I’m being tortured. A strong man is pulling on my arm. Now he’s pushing on my shoulder. He’s leaning in, pushing down while holding my arm against him. I can’t get away. I can’t make him stop. In desperation, I try  to get off the table. Despite being inured to the pain he’s causing, he senses my struggle. ”Where do you think you’re GOING?” he queries. “I’m trying to get away from you so you’ll stop hurting me,” I reply. He breaks into a grin and lets up for a nanosecond from reefing on my arm. Welcome to boot camp physical therapy.

Yes, I’m actually paying for this. My physical therapist, who studied at Mr. T’s school of physical therapy, has the hands of a mob boss. For the last few weeks, he’s been singularly determined to beat the tendonitis out of my shoulder if it’s the last thing he ever does. He’s exercised it, stretched it, iced it, heated it, ultrasounded it, taped it, and now he’s massaging it. Although it’s more like the kind of massage one might expect to get at Gitmo. In an earlier time, Mr. T. was a trainer for a Big Ten college football team. This explains a lot. A 300-pound linebacker probably would be saying right now “So when are you going to start?”

It’s not just physical therapy. In my efforts to keep biking despite the tendonitis, I’m accumulating a large collection of accoutrements. I have pages of exercise instructions scattered across my desk. The thought is that when I see these papers, it will remind me to do them. I have a foam roller for stretching the myofascia, leaned up against the piano. Yes, so I’ll remember to use it. I have a large red exercise ball in my living room, again, to remind me ….  I have a small exercise ball too, also red.  And a yellow stretching band. And a blue one. The Tony Horton “Ten minute trainer” series is sitting out on the table to remind me that if I give Tony ten minutes, he’ll give me the body I want, so I won’t have these problems in the first place. Right.

Then, there’s the Yoga stuff. I gave up Yoga when I started having trouble with my shoulder. But my massage therapist, the other torture guy, keeps giving me Yoga accessories to use for stretching. So, now I have a Yoga bolster, which is like a long narrow couch cushion, and a Yoga belt, which for the life of me, I can’t imagine, and really don’t want to know, what they do with this thing in Yoga class.

But back to Mr. T. He’s done “massaging” my shoulder and now he’s getting ready to tape it. The same man who minutes ago was pushing my arm in directions it doesn’t normally go, is stretching and smoothing out tape as gently as if he’s taping up a butterfly’s wing. He’s the same guy who softly wraps a wonderfully warm heating pad around my neck every time I arrive. He gives me all sorts of sage advice to help me balance my cycling habit with a shoulder that doesn’t want to behave, all the while making me laugh. When I’m not crying that is. He’s cajoled me into agreeing to have my bike refitted, and even recommended I hire a housecleaner, so I can give my arms a rest, and save them for biking. What’s not to like about a man like that? Turns out he’s more Mr. Rogers than Mr. T. And as I leave the office, I notice my shoulder feels, well if feels good. He’s managed to turn aiieeeeehhhhh into ah. Thanks Mr. T.

Related posts:

• Nameste darn it!
• CyclingGrandma: Yoga 
•  Huffygirl’s Blog: The rotator cuff

 © Huffygirl

Back from Mayberry

I just got back from Mayberry. Well, not really, but it sure seemed like it. Today was Health Day at the county fair in the small town where I work. This was my first time going to this county fair, and I’m so glad I did. 

I ended up riding over to the fair grounds with my boss after the folksy directions everyone gave me like ”turn at the building that used to be the old funeral parlor” escaped me. We parked on a grassy knoll, where high school volunteers in orange pinnies directed us. No charge for the parking, which I know at the county fair in my “big city” at home would have cost at least $7.00.

As we walked through the gate, half a dozen conversations were going on around us, to which we were automatically drawn in. It helps that my boss,  whom I’ve dubbed the queen of this small town, seems to know just about everyone. And people here are friendly, whether you know them or not. Folks talked about their blood pressure, vacations, and the cow their grandson is showing in the fair.

This is the prettiest fair I’ve ever seen – quaint old white barns with plank floors scrubbed clean and doors thrown open to show their wares. We ambled past a duck pond and  kiddie rides that made me wish my granddaughter was with me, so we could take a trip together round and round on a space ship. We passed through the homemaking building where a group of quilters beseeched us to buy tickets for the quilt raffle; past displays of homemade quilts that at least here people still take the time to painstakingly make by hand; past floral arrangements, potted plants, and antique displays. Past a tractor display, where parents and grandparents boosted toddlers onto tractor seats, and little kids climbed up on the big tires amid cries of “Look at me!” 

We reached the long narrow barn with the health fair booths and set up our table, cajoling passersby to stop for free toothpaste, candy and a chance to have their blood pressure checked. While I charmed farmers in plaid shirts and straw hats to let me check their blood pressure, my boss chatted with half the people in the town about the upcoming rotary meeting, which kids were going back to college soon, and all the mundane things that people in small towns know about each other. One lady whom  I cajoled into the blood pressure chair whispered that she knew her blood pressure was high, but couldn’t afford her medicine. While I tucked her arm under mine and pumped up the cuff, I told her about the cheapest places to go to get the medicine she needed, all the while marveling why her own doctor had not done the same. I asked the man in the square dancing outfit what he was all dressed up for as I coaxed him into the chair, to which he replied “For my date with you!”

I  told people who had so few teeth that it hurt to look at them about our dental clinic. I let a little boy listen to his heart with my stethoscope. I encouraged a portly man with a red face who told me he had already lost 60 pounds. I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around all sorts of arms – young, old, tattooed, tanned, and chatted and smiled with all sorts of friendly folks, the kind you meet in small towns and just can’t help liking.

At the end of the day we packed up our booth and walked back to the car park, juggling our glasses of hand-squeezed lemonade with our baskets of leftover freebies, slurping the last few delightful drops out of the bottom of the glass.

Next year I’ll be back. We’ll have more toothbrushes to go with our toothpaste. Maybe I’ll make a card to give to  folks with a list of where to get low-cost prescriptions. Maybe I’ll bring a play stethoscope for the little kids to use while I check their parent’s blood pressure. And I certainly will come early. I’ll turn right by the old funeral parlor, drive up to the grassy knoll and park by the high school volunteers.  I’ll chat with the people at the gate, enter the quilt raffle, buy a hot dog and a freshly squeezed lemonade. I’ll see the sheep and cows, look at the tractors and maybe even try a ride the next time I go back: back to Mayberry.

© Huffygirl 2011

Bee sting. Uh oh. ER.

I’m lying on  gurney shivering under three blankets in the small but efficient Mayberry-like ER? How did normally healthy, robust Huffygirl wind up here? Well, fast-backward about 30 hours to the second day of my vacation. ______________________________________________

It’s a beautiful sunny, Sunday afternoon. I’m walking on the beach with best husband and without any warning or provocation, I get a bee sting on my little toe. I’m pretty sure I’m not allergic, so, no big deal. I soak my foot in the lake for a few minutes to take the edge off the pain and try to walk if off. My toe continued to ache the rest of the night and the next day, but hey, it’s a bee sting – it’s supposed to hurt, right? 

The next morning I got up early for a bike ride. but was feeling a little achy and stiff. Am I getting to old for this? I didn’t even think about the bee sting, which still aches. Best husband and I started out and got the hills over with in the first part of the ride. Finally with 10 flat miles in the home stretch I think  “This should be a cinch. “ But it wasn’t – it was feeling harder than it should for a flat ride. And I’m starting  to ache and ache and ache some more. “I really AM getting to old for this,” I rationalize as I finished the ride. By the time I get the bike gear put away and get into the shower, I’m shaking with chills, aching like the worst case of flu anyone could ever have, and just plain worn out. And it continued – all day. I knew what the problem was  but didn’t want to admit it. Despite the fact that my toe did not look too bad, I knew I was developing cellulitis, an infection of the skin and surrounding soft tissues, from bacteria introduced from the bee sting. The stinger acts just like a needle, bringing infection quickly into even a robust, healthy person like me. You might as well just inject yourself with a syringe-full of germs and save yourself the trouble of going through the sting.

But hey, I’m on vacation. Maybe it’s not cellulitis – maybe just a virus. So, I waited. I dragged myself through the day trying to do family vacation stuff. But I felt worse and worse. By the time we had an afternoon tea party with first granddaughter, I was too tired and aching to even crawl down onto the floor to join her. A long nap while swathed in blankets failed to revive me. Finally, by 9 PM I succumbed and went with best husband to the small town emergency room.

Despite the Mayberry-like atmosphere, the ER staff was professional and efficient. ”Hmmm,” the ER doctor said, after greeting me with “How do you do?” a salutation I confess with which I’ve never been addressed by anyone, anywhere. “Fever and chills less than 24 hours after a bee sting? We’d better do…blood cultures!” This sounds serious. By now I’m wishing I hadn’t waited ALL DAY to get here, something that surely would have sparked a lecture from me to any of my own patients who had done such a foolish thing.

Meanwhile, three warm blankets and my husband’s sweatshirt (Michigan of course) are still not keeping away the chills. Best husband settled down with his book while I shivered and waited out the tests.

Well, I dodged the bullet and turned out pretty okay – a localized infection, but not body-wide. So I went off with antibiotics and the stern lecture to come back the INSTANT anything became worse.

Not too old for cycling after all! (© Huffygirl 2011)

Did I recover? Several days later I was completely back to normal and no longer questioning if I was getting to old for cycling. And of course I had a dramatic story with which to regale anyone who was willing to listen, about my vacation trip to ER in Mayberry. 

Remember that old insurance commercial where a disaster has occurred and the commentator says seriously “Don’t let this happen to you!” Well, don’t. If you get a bee sting, a scrape or cut and start to feel signs of infection like fever, chills, body aches, redness, swelling, take it seriously and get health care promptly. I don’t want to lose any of my readers to a bee sting.

© Huffygirl 2011

A journey begins with 10,000 steps

A step-counting pedometer. (Image via Wikipedia)

You’ve heard that expression haven’t you? Well, probably not, since the actual expression is ”A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” attributed to  Confucius. But this journey, the 10,000 steps one, is about lifetime fitness.

I’ve been working on writing information for my diabetic patients on eating and exercise, and ran across some literature that advocates taking 10,000 steps (about 5 miles)  a day. I’ve read some different variations of this, and if you want to know the basics you can read here, or do a search on your own. The basic premise is that walking 10,000 steps per day (the rough equivalent of 5 miles for a person with an average stride) is thought to be a reasonable amount of exercise to maintain fitness and weight, and is something that an average healthy person should do just about every day. The suggestion is that one should take a brisk 30-60 minute walk for the first 5,000 steps, aka 2.5 miles, then accomplish the rest by one’s regular activity. If your regular day is sedentary, you’ll have to do more in the planned walking part to make up for it.

In researching this, I began to wonder if the average person has enough activity in a typical day to rack up 5,000 or so steps a day. I found a pedometer lying around the house that counts steps, and tried it out. Since my exercise is biking instead of walking, which my pedometer cannot record, my goal is to see if I can get around 5,000 steps during my typical day. Then if I add on the calorie value of biking (100 calories = one mile) that should be the equivalent of walking another 5,000, to bring the total for the day to 10,000 steps.  I’d probably have to bike 45 minutes to get the additional exercise I need. I do more some days, less some days, so let’s hope it all evens out. 

So here’s what happened.

Day 1: I hit the trainer in my basement in the morning, and didn’t clip on the pedometer until after I’d showered and dressed. I spent the day doing a few short errands, working around the house, and up and down the stairs several times doing laundry. Pedometer total: 5,580 steps. Not bad. Let’s see what tomorrow brings – I’ll be at the office so this might be tough…

Day 2: I was at the clinic all day. I do a fair amount of walking around there but it’s  a small building. Probably at least one-quarter to one-third  of my day is standing or sitting. Today I went out at lunch time, so that added some walking to the car, the restaurant, and back again. At home I did my usual evening activities, went to the gym to lift weights. Pedometer total: 5,443 steps.

Day 3: Thirty minutes on the bike, then doing some shopping, errands and work around the house. I had two appointments that required sitting for two-three hours, plus some time in the car. Did some up and down the stairs for laundry too. I thought with all the sitting I did that it wouldn’t be enough steps. But at the end of the day, Pedometer total: 6,506.

Day 4:First thing in the morning  I participated in a 5K (3.1 mile walk). At the end of the walk my pedometer showed 12,164 steps. It seems like my 5K walk should have recorded as 5,000 to 6,000 steps, which makes me think this pedometer is counting two steps for every one I take. Later, I did some more walking around town, shopping, and walked a little bit at a park. Pedometer total for the day: 18,349.

 After my four-day walking experiment, I’m starting to think that either: a) getting 10,000 steps a day is way easier than I thought it would be, or b) this pedometer is recording too many steps.  Perhaps  it’s recording any kind of side to side movement that I do as steps, or counting every step I take as two. It was not an expensive pedometer, so I guess I’ll never know unless I buy a more expensive one, or have someone else try this one and see what kind of numbers they get. But if my pedometer is correct, than it seems that even office-bound people should be able to walk at least 5,000 steps in the course of a day fairly easily.

So, at this point my four-day unscientific experiment has shown inconclusive results. The accuracy of the pedometer remains unknown. It would be interesting to hear from others who have tried the 10,000 steps per day to see what kind of results you’ve gotten. Meanwhile, maybe I can get someone else around here to give my pedometer a try to get some comparison numbers.

Related articles

• Do You Wear a Pedometer Daily? (fitsugar.com)
• The journey of 10,000 steps… (weightjournal.com)