My sister Mary is my exercise guru. Some years ago, she introduced me to the 10,000-step-a-day plan, in which fitness is almost guaranteed by consciously walking those 10K steps (that’s around five miles) daily. An integral part of the plan is wearing a pedometer to measure exactly how many steps one has actually taken.

I love my pedometer. Just as Mary said would happen, it acts as a little personal trainer. It never hectors or scolds, just reminds me gently and objectively that I’ve been sitting at my desk an awfully long time today, or that walking to KV school makes more sense than driving because that’s 2000 steps round trip. Some days when I have done nothing but clean the house, I am astonished to discover that without setting foot outdoors I have still walked three or four miles. I have also learned that walking to Latika Vihar alone takes 1500 steps. Walking with my Dad, who moves very very slowly, takes 2500.

I give pedometers to people as gifts. Kids love them (my nephews, who almost never sit still, regularly rack up 20,000 steps just in the course of their everyday lives); friends who need to lose weight have been amazed to see how little they actually walk.

Maybe I am a little obsessive. I wear mine constantly, and if I haven’t done the full 10K, I often pace up and down in front of the TV (West Wing!) until I get to my goal. I put it on first thing in the morning and on those rare days when I forget, I consider all the uncounted steps as “wasted”.

I have gone through three pedometers now (they fall off and land in the toilet, the clasp on the lid finally wears out and you can’t close it, etc), so I try to keep an extra handy in case of emergencies. But last month, the unthinkable happened. It was Christmas Eve. Several times during the day, it had slipped off my waist band (weird pair of pants with a slippery fabric and a thin, narrow band – I’ve gotten rid of them), but I thought I was on top of the situation.

I went to the Latika Vihar program, where it actually fell to the ground and I retrieved it. That was the last time I saw it. Many hours later, after going to several shops, a friend’s house, to the market for vegetables (all those steps!), I realized, getting dressed for the Midnight Mass, that it was gone.

It was obviously too late then to go back and search for it, and the next day being Christmas I couldn’t start looking until the third day. The crucial window of opportunity was gone. Miserable, I plodded back over my entire route on the 26th (trying to count mentally, but constantly losing my place), knowing it was highly unlikely I would find it. I took a non-functioning one (dead battery, and I cannot for the life of me figure out how to insert a new one) along with me to show to the different shopkeepers, but it was hopeless. No one had seen it. They were all (lean to a man) fascinated by the concept of a step-counter, though. Crazy American, they must have been thinking.

Three days ago, I went to buy vegetables. The man’s face lit up when he saw me. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you for weeks!” He opened his wooden cash box and handed me my little personal trainer. “My son found it after you left that day.” I almost wept. My friend! My coach! I’m back on track.