Yesterday I stepped back onto an elliptical machine for the first time in a while. Like always, the machine said “Enter Weight.” I stalled a few seconds, then I typed in a lie.
That’s right, a big fat lie. I typed in a number within 10 pounds of what I think I weigh, erring on the low side. I felt a little ridiculous lying to an inanimate object, but I did it anyway.
It’s not the first time, either. It hit me that I always lie about my weight when I step on an exercise machine. And I lie about my age too.
“Enter Age.” OK. Wow I forgot I was that old and since that’s a freakin’ ridiculous number I’ll just round it down, but not too much in case I need to be notified of a dangerous heart-rate explosion along the way.
I lie to the exercise machine because I don’t want the person who gets on after me to know my (true) business if my “stats” are still there. Like anyone really cares.
And you know what else? I’m probably going to keep lying to the exercise machine until I hit some “numbers” that aren’t so insane—in spite of the fact that I am getting younger and better- looking every day.
In the meantime, if you want to know where I really stand, jump on after me and add 10 or 20. n or twenty. Whatever. Just “showing up” makes me feel thinner and younger—and that’s no lie.