Every Little Step-Counter Counts

I’ve been wearing a step-counter,

sent to me years ago by my father,

a health worrier from way back,

since I stopped doing judo, and pulled my back out reaching for a book on the floor.

Not that I don’t walk a lot.

I’m married to a German-

the nation that thinks cars either:

  1. should be Mercedes or Porsche and driven at 200 kmh,


2. are a sin to use if you could get there on foot.

Meaning under 20 km round trip.

In ice and snow.

“It strengthens the immune system”

or rain.

“just put on an oil slicker and go”

Did I mention my husband Harold was born with teeny tiiiny little hiking boots on?

So anyway,

I struggled with Dad’s step counter for years,

picture breakfast plate size.

mounted on a long massive slab of metal so heavy you have to walk bow-legged to balance it.

And the person who uses this thing will never have to buy weights or carry soup cans for exercise.

So after a few years of clanking when I walked,

and banging the thing against tables,

car doors,

you get the picture,

I decided to get a more modern one.

The first step to which was finding a sporting goods store-

where I was looked at like I was crazy,

since everyone here walks,

and why would you want to count steps.

But that’s another story.

So by chance,

in the Wiesbaden old town,

while out for a stroll with Harold,

who I made,

no, make that asked,

with much batting of eyelashes,

and tossing of long hair-

relax, Harold has never done anything because I do that,

but he does laugh out loud,

which makes my chances better,

to wear the breakfast plate,

which he did,

although he did mention a few choice words about control freak health fanatic females-

I’ll make it up by making his coffee tomorrow-

So there we were, looking at a sign for a new opening for a Scottish pub,

complete with fierce, nasty-tempered Glaswegian,

as we later found out,

when I saw the sign.

Walking boots, ponchos, STEP-COUNTERS-

this was right before the fitness bracelet craze,

so we bought one.

About the size of a quarter,

fully electronic,

on a small baby-diaper-pin-and chain,

pretty colors,


as I discovered when i decided to try it out when we stopped for coffee

more buttons, gadgets, likes, and perks than any other “health helper” around.

Oh, and it doesn’t work if it is in any position except absolutely vertical.

Which means either perfect posture,

a trip to a hardware store for a level,


a few weeks later I bought a fitness band.

Pretty colors,

electronic memory T to hook into my computer to call the magic genie of the bluetooth-

“oh magical genie of the bluetooth- how many steps must I do today?”

That got old fast.

Especially after I decided one day that to count steps on a counter with a visible display, I didn’t need  to call the genie,

and the genie,

pouting, yeah verily,

took revenge of a fearful kind,

and refused to let my mouse make contact with my computer.

“This parking spot for genies only.”

So I bought a new mouse-

It was allowed to talk to the computer-

And I ignored the genie,

while using the band,

(which, as I mentioned before, works perfectly well without it. )

But then…

Oh yeah, oh yeah…

Woe is me,

Alas and alack,

ok, ok.

But when do you get to see alas and alack in print.

So anyway,

I was sailing along quite well without G, thank you very much,

when I realized that:

you see, the darned  armband “you will get healthy or else, noodge noodge noodge,” thing has a watch,

which flashes a solid red line,

like a giant flatline, visible to all,

if you don’t move.

and the watch has to call the genie,

while the T is in the “for genies only” mouse killer slot,

or the watch stays permanently at one no-longer-daylight-saving-time hour ahead.

So now comes the big question:

I wonder how many kilometers I have to walk with Harold, before he can be bribed into giving me back the mechanical breakfast plate.

copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

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