I am embarrassed to admit that my list of idiosyncrasies and
eccentricities could probably rival a Woody Allen film. While it is
true that motherhood has helped mute and distract my neurotic
tendencies, many of my fixations have simply grown worse over the
years. A brief sampling:
I hoard Ziploc bags like a drug dealer.
I believe every load of laundry decreases your time in purgatory
by an hour.
Stepping on a crack really does break your mother's back.
Seriously. For real.
If you don't check your locked door five times, you are just
asking for trouble.
It is exhausting being a crazy person. Yet a few months back, I
read something about how healthy people walk 10,000 steps a day. I
was instantly intrigued and ordered a pedometer. Was I a healthy
person? Surely I had to be somewhere in the ballpark of that
That would be a no.
On Day #1, my grand total was around 15 steps. I was obviously a
candidate for my own TLC show. Things needed to change, so I got
When I lived downtown in my 20s, I walked constantly. If things
were less than two miles away, walking was easier than dealing with
public transportation. Yet once my husband and I moved to the south
side of the city, I would gripe about not landing "Rock Star
Parking" as though my tush couldn't afford the extra 50 steps.
Then I clipped on that handy little pedometer on Day #2 and it
was GAME ON. All of my obsessive-compulsive propensities were
suddenly being used for good and not for evil. I started putting
away laundry one piece of clothing at a time. I leapt out of the
car to pace while my husband filled our minivan with gas. And for a
mother who once insisted on the old "Get it yourself" philosophy
whenever anyone required refills, condiments, or a fork at the
dinner table, I was now jumping up like Carol freaking Brady.
And the steps? They started adding up.
This pedometer was everything I could have hoped for and more.
It was an obsessive-compulsive's best friend. My mania was
channeled towards reaching the next level, the next block, the next
So if you see me pacing, marching in place, or walking
repeatedly over to another part of the room to "check on
something," feel free to make fun of me. And comment on my butt,
because it's looking way less jiggly.
So move over, Ziploc bags. There's a new sheriff in town.
PEDOMETER BATTERIES. Seriously. I have enough for the next 15
It really is a disease.
(If anyone wants to join my new Facebook Pedometer Support
visit here. We mostly just post our totals of steps walked and
Marianne is mother of three sons and the wife of a southside Irish fireman. She has learned that sometimes you're just too dumb to know what makes you happy. She blogs regularly at We Band of Mothers (webandofmothers.com) and curses with even greater frequency. Her material is written for the imperfect, the imprudent, and the impatient mothers who know that all this stuff is really very funny if you just give it a minute.
See more of Marianne's stories here.
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