I bought a pedometer yesterday. It is a very clever device – it tells you how many steps you’ve taken, how many kilometres you’ve roamed, how many calories you’ve burned and how many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man.
People have told me pedometers are highly inaccurate, but I say pfft to that. I care not for precision instruments. I just wanted to try and beat the number of steps that I did the day before. Exercise is no fun unless there’s some sort of petty challenge involved.
So clipped the contraption to my skirt and strolled out of the Sportsman’s Warehouse thinking I was Ms Sportypants. I adopted a jaunty John Travolta Stayin’ Alive kind of stride that I figured would definitely register on the pedometer. Oh yes. I felt so cool and so healthy and so convinced that by the time we departed in six weeks, I would be morphed into the foxiest thing Scotland has ever seen.
Then POW! Right outside the Canberra Centre in a crowded lunchtime, the heel of my left shoe snapped off. My ankled wobbled wildly and I said, “Ooof!”.
I staggered across the tiles in ungraceful fashion, handbag swinging as I swore. The next hour was spent sulking and stomping around the shops in search of a replacement for shoes I bought barely three months ago. It’s hard enough trying to find dainty summer footwear for a size 10 hoof as it is, let alone when the Christmas sales are over and the winter stock is coming in.
After five different salespeople in four different stores rolled their eyes at my predicament, a young gentleman finally shoved my feet into a pair of size 9 mules and declared it a perfect fit. Such a Cinderella moment.
But as soon as I clopped my way back to the office, I realised these boots weren’t made for walking. So I switched back to the broken shoes and went back to the shoe store and whined until they gave me a refund. I was still shoeless, but all that mucking about added up to 3500 steps. Woohoo!