This morning I find myself feeling a little bit like the weather.
Dark. Sleepless. Gloomy.
I contemplate spitting on everyone I see today to drive this point home, but that would require equal parts hydration and energy.
I decide against it.
You see, I need to save my energy to count my steps today as part of a team building exercise.
For a hundred days, we get to log our steps, generate idle conversation about how or why we didn’t walk as much as we should, laughing at the inaccuracies of the pedometer.
Yes, let’s blame the technology. Like every other Luddite before us.
I’m not sure what the big deal is.
I gave my pedometer to my hyper active nephew days ago.
This activity is the quintessential practice in collaboration.
It allegedly promotes a healthy lifestyle.
My favourite part was the assessment I had to take which determined I don’t get enough sleep, I make poor food choices, plus my overall mind, nutrition and activity levels are below ideal.
You can log your steps through a variety of ways.
And, if you happen to forget, thankfully, there’s a team member that passively aggressively reminds you.
I.e. “Lidia, I really love those shoes! Maybe you’ll get a lot of steps from those. Too bad they won’t log the steps themselves!”
Too bad we’re coworkers.
Too bad you learned to speak.
Too bad your shoes can’t magically fall off and slap you upside the head.
Too bad these shoes cannot direct me to tacos.
I contemplate developing a patent for “The Taco Walko” and making a pitch on Dragon’s Den.
What happens when you wear these shoes in Mexico or Southern California?
Do they explode? Would border security confiscate them?
I don’t think the world is ready for my ingenuity. Yet.
I realize my mouth is now watering, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the tacos or because the thought of me being part of a team makes me want to spit. Timely, just like the weather.
In light of my self-diagnosed approach avoidance conflict, this walking challenge has me doing a victory lap around the Hamilton GO Centre.
I stop and take notice of the following sign:
I’m a big fan of signs. Almost as much as my dear friend, M. Night Shyamalan.
Ok, so we’ve never met, but when you’re an extrovert, everyone is your friend.
It makes us sound arrogant.
Good team repellent.
What does this mean?!!
Did the machine itself run out of money?
Did the sign’s creator run out of space? Ink? A will to live?
Look at the quantity of jelly beans in there.
Just how many people decided, “Oh, my train or bus isn’t on time…I might as well have a jelly bean!”
There’s a definite correlation here of posted public transit delays and jelly beans consumed.
Where is the N?!!
Why doesn’t anyone care?
Maybe this sign is the universe reminding me of my financial status.
Commuting will do that to you.
So will spending money in attempts of filling emotional voids, beer fridges and shoe closets.
I’m suddenly reminded I have yet to be paid for a course I taught which ended a couple months ago.
And that I should buy a lottery ticket.
Maybe it’s just a sign from a degenerate who cannot spell.
Or, what if the machine has been tweaked so that it no longer needs money to dispense jelly beans, and the signage is meant to deter others from freebies?
I smirk at that thought.
It’s something I would do.