accountable

Remember way, way back in early 2015 when Beth vowed that this would be the year of The Man (or something like that.... remind me to look that up)(update: I was right)?  I also made a resolution! I decided that this would be the year of The Arms. My arms, yeesh. My whole body, really. I've been distracted, I guess. I was in great shape for a while, and although technically I am still wearing the same size clothes and occupying the same general quantity of space in the universe, I've got all soft and squishy. I blame age, and beer and Goldfish crackers, though not necessarily in that order. Enough is enough, though.

I have a lifetime membership at an omnipresent gym, but have been plagued by some lower hemisphere issues that have changed the way I exercise. I needed to supplement, and  started the year off strong with a trial membership at a pilates studio, but I had a problem with the management who were soosososossososososo dumb and wanted me to commit to a pricey annual membership and then have the chance to visit the studios close to my house. I loved the reformer classes though, I thought they would be the answer to my quest for The Arms.

I've got a few other tricks up my sleeve that will come through soon enough to get myself back on a reformer and/or strapped to the TRX, but in the meantime I've got no choice but to tackle the equally pressing issues of the beer and the goldfish.

My workplace kicked off a health initiative in 2015, and I signed up to receive accountability in the form of a little bitty plastic thingamadoodle and a stack of instruction sheets from which one might presumably learn to synch all manner of apps and gadgets so that my every step and my every bite are recorded and analyzed. It's weird.

It is accountability, though. Logging my bites and steps will inspire me to take less and more, respectively, and I am banking on the change to reveal itself in plenty of time for beach days. I'd better hurry though, it's pretty nice out.

AND I got a free towel.