We have a new machine at work, courtesy of my coworker Doug’s grant, which has been months in the making, and about which he has been bugging us (as in: “Is my machine here yet?”) for weeks:
It looks quite harmless. It measures, while seated, blood pressure, weight, BMI and a host of other data points. It’s for visiting seafarers. As part of a wellness program. But of course, my coworkers all been eyeing it…from afar.
Not me. I have been avoiding this machine like the plague.
It turns out, all those 30-35 mile/weeks don’t mean you can graze like a horse out to pasture. And post-Shamrock I’ve found my jeans to be snug (yet AGAIN!). This winter has been too long and cold and snowy, and I think our bodies are reacting the only way they intrinsically know how–by consuming food, and a lot of it.
Another co-worker (Stephen) thought it might be best to incorporate Doug’s machine into some sort of employee bonding activity. SCI Fit Club. Everyone antes up $20. They step on the machine and set a goal. The one closest to his/her goal in 90 days wins the pool.
The weigh-in was Tuesday. I don’t think anyone was happy with their numbers. Except me. Because somehow I sat on the bench incorrectly so that my weight came in a 102 lbs. Honest to God, I know I don’t weigh 102 lbs. But for a NY minute, I wondered if perhaps my uber-accurate scale from Japan was possibly wicked incorrect.
Anyway, goals are set (one co-worker actually wants to gain weight). Plans are in place. Sabotage (in the form of Girl Scout cookies) has commenced. I’m back on track with My Fitness Pal and I swear, I’m going to win that $100.
Doug, however, is nowhere to be found.