Death, humiliation, resurrection and... death

Some of you may remember that a wrote a post awhile back about how I received a nifty little device for measuring how many steps I take every day as a gift from a treppenwitz reader who happens to be a Doc. 

The simple fact of this tiny pedometer clipped to my waistband encouraged me to do so much more walking during my days than I thought possible... truly amazing!  And now that nearly everyone in my family has one, the competitiveness every evening to see who has more steps is, well, a little cut-throat.

Anyway, what I didn't write in that post is the sad story of how I killed my free pedometer with an act of incredible stupidity... how it miraculously came back from the dead... and how I managed to kill it again!

You see, on one of my recent trips abroad I was confined to my hotel for almost a week due to, um, 'local security concerns' (code-speak for an ongoing war).  The hotel itself was a five star Hilton Resort, so I wasn't really suffering, mind you, but still... you can only sit by the pool reading, and drinking free umbrella drinks for so long before you need to find something else to do. [cue violins and sympathy]

That something else turned out to be my discovery of the health club. 

Whenever I travel on business, I always, always, always bring along gym/swim trunks and sneakers... because, y'know, I'm totally gonna spend all my spare time in the health club.

Needless to say, that never happens. 

The funny thing is that the really cruel resorts mock people like me by putting the health club near the pool, so that as I sit drinking my free umbrella drinks and reading by the pool I can look through the windows and see all those type-A's doing step classes and running like hamsters on the treadmills.

But, believe it or not, on this particular trip I actually got bored enough of drinking and reading by the pool that I decided to work out!  So, feeling all full of self-righteousness, I got into my never-used gym-wear and almost as an afterthought I clipped my pedometer to my trunks before setting off to the health club to get me some health.  All I could think about was how I was going to call Zahava that evening and blow her away with how many steps I racked up on the treadmill. Take that, miss competitive!

After scanning the millions of exercise machines gleaming in the well-lit club, I set my sights on a nice treadmill near the window and hopped aboard.  The club manager came over and explained how to use the machine and introduced me to the young woman who would be bringing me mineral water and periodically patting the sweat from my brow with a hand-towel (plush club!).

I don't recall if I've ever used a treadmill before, but this one was like some sort of video game!  It had me walking up desert inclines, jogging through forests and trotting through hilly parks.  After almost half an hour it had me cooling down near a stream (seriously plush club!).

By the end of my work-out I was feeling more than a little proud of myself and decided to show off my newly-perfect physique... so I took my bottle of mineral water, politely dismissed my brow-patter and headed out to dazzle the slackers by the pool.

Sadly, when I got out to the pool I found that I had the place mostly to myself.  The few people milling about were hotel employees who practically fell over themselves trying to be the first to offer me a towel, a lounge chair or a free umbrella drink.

Once I had staked out my lounge chair, I stripped off my shirt... kicked off my sneakers and launched my Greek-god-perfectness into a breathtaking dive that sliced the surface of the clear, blue pool water. 

Heaven!

As I did a few casual laps, all I could think of was 'this is probably how colonialism got started'.

As I walked up the steps and out of the water, I stood posing in the dazzling sunshine like Adonis and was met by a lovely young thing who handed me a towel that was roughly the size of a bedspread.  As I reached for the towel I was feeling particularly chuffed by her appreciative gaze in the direction of my mid-section.  In fact, I felt like I had health and physical-fitness just dripping off me like pool water!

It was at that point that this beautiful young woman gushed, "Oh sir, is that a pedometer you're wearing on your swimsuit?  Wherever did you find a waterproof one?"

The sound of my deflation was almost audible.

In an instant I went from one of those chiseled guys you see on Harlequin Romance covers, to the pasty-white, slightly pudgy middle aged daddy that I am in real life.  In the blink of an eye I had become George Costanza! 

And best of all, I was standing there in front of this beautiful young woman with a waterlogged pedometer clipped to my swim trunks!

I don't remember what I mumbled as I declined the towel and hastily pulled on my tee-shirt and sneakers, but I do recall standing in the elevator with pool water dripping into my Nikes... wondering if I'd killed the free pedometer.

I had.

When I got to my room, I took off the pedometer and tried to see if by some miracle it would turn on.  It wouldn't.  I opened the battery compartment and was rewarded with a small waterfall of pool-water. 

Yup, dead as a doornail!

I don't know what I was thinking, but instead of throwing the dead pedometer in the garbage right there and then, I tossed it into my suitcase and decided to see if it would work after drying out.  I shamefacedly emailed my physician friend to tell him that I'd killed his gift and told him not to worry... that I'd spring for the next pedometer.

When I got back from my trip, I was unpacking my impressive assortment of bathroom swag (oh c'mon, you all take the shampoos, moisturizers and other free crap from the hotel bathrooms... so don't pretend otherwise), when I noticed the dead pedometer in amongst the shower caps and sewing kits.  I was about to toss it into the trash but decided to press the on/off button to see if a miracle had happened in my suitcase.  < ~BLINK~ > it turned on!  All my previous steps had been wiped out, of course... but it worked!!!

I've continued to use the resurrected free pedometer every day as it was now doubly-effective in getting me to be more active.  You see, not only was I intimately aware of how many steps I was taking... but each time I glanced at the little device I was reminded of my poolside humiliation.  It turns out that shame is quite an effective motivator!   Who knew?

Just as a footnote to the story... my trusty free pedometer finally died a second and more lasting death this week.  The plastic clip that holds it to the belt/waistband broke off, rendering the it pretty much useless.  I tried putting it in my pocket but it was registering only about a third of my steps.

Anyhoo... You'll be happy to know that I now I have a store-bought pedometer like Zahava and Ariella.  And just so we're clear... I've promised never to wear the thing on the off chance that I ever set foot in another hotel health club.