There is that moment of optimism when one dons a Fitbit wristband for the first time. A new life – and a precise method of measuring one’s progress towards it. The fabled 10,000 steps, bringing with them the promise of trim wellbeing if completed each day. If: that brief, devastating qualification.
Good intentions, especially in regard to exercise among those not delighted by exertion, are delicate blooms. They may flower for a time: the thrill of the last extra lap of the park; the long evening walk home from the railway station in preference to the cheeky taxi. But they tend not to last. Indolence bides its time, sure in its eventual victory.
The problem is the 10,000. Ten thousand. STEPS! That would
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