Pedometer by Nuala McEvoy

‘You really need to count your steps,’ or so I was advised,

as if, by counting them, I’d suddenly be surprised

to acquire the perfect contours I had so long awaited

I was triggered by this vision, energized and motivated.

So I downloaded the app onto my mobile phone,

then provided it with data which I had previously not known:

length of stride, shoe-size, weight and size of bra

(this last bit is a lie, I’m taking things too far),

phone contacts, photos, voice recordings and locations.

This app knew more about me than my close relations.

And with it in my phone now firmly embedded,

I mentally prepared myself for what I´d always dreaded.

I aimed to tone my body: stomach muscles, even biceps,

and all this achieved by just walking ten thousand steps.

I know this sounds like counting eggs while still incubating,

but I was fired up, you see, my new physique was waiting.

I soon learnt that counting steps became a bit obsessive

and instead of making progress, my behaviour became regressive.

It’s 16 steps to the loo (16 back make 32):

Twelve trips thus provided me with enough cals to eat

 100 grammes of chocolate, a veritable treat.

And if my chocolate craving was not quite in remission,

I could drink more liquids for more frequent micturition.

There are just 12 steps from the sofa to the fridge:

Six calories per fridge-visit was absolutely fine.

I needed only 38 trips to burn off a glass of wine.

But from the loo to the fridge is a longer distance,

I could double my wine-consumption with the least resistance.

Time was ticking by, and I wasn’t getting fit

but my maths was making strides, to this I do admit.

And then I reflected on great women in the past.

I’m sure they didn’t dally counting footsteps they amassed.

I can’t see Boadicea wielding her flaming sword

while glancing at her telephone to check her step-record.

I can’t conceive of Mary alighting from her mount,

And telling Joseph she has to walk to reach her number-count.

It’s hard to think of Margaret pacing Downing Street

and informing husband Dennis that she has a goal to meet.

And so I gave my app some consideration

and decided to delete it, after much procrastination.

And instead of all this dithering, of talking all the talk,

I donned my brand new trainers to really walk the walk.

Nuala McEvoy started to while away the long pandemic hours by writing daft poems, and now she has a stash of silliness on her computer. She hopes that by sharing her ramblings, she will raise a smile or two.

Image via Unsplash.