Back in April, my husband went on a health kick. He announced that he was quitting drinking Coca-Cola, would increase his exercise, and intended to lose thirty pounds in ninety days. All he required was my support (and I was all for it: the monthly Coca-Cola bills and subsequent dental bills were outrageous), a reward at the end (he wanted an Apple Watch, and would save up for it in the meantime), and a Fitbit.
Fine. If I don’t have to exercise with you, or prepare special meals, or do anything much to alter my own daily routine, great. That’s the kind of cheerleader I am.
Jason met his goals. He’s lost almost forty pounds (don’t get me started on how much easier it is for men to lose weight; I will only say here: !@#?!!) and ordered his super-expensive watch (which he did save for, though often from my paycheck) last month. He’s still not drinking soda, which really makes all of this worth it: see “dental bills” above.
But when he got his new watch, he held up the trusty Fitbit that had gotten him to this point and said “Want it?”
First off, I don’t feel the need to lose weight. A health issue I dealt with during the months he was exercising took care of my extra pounds. Secondly, his Fitbit was sized for a 6’5” man who originally outweighed me by a hundred pounds when he started. (Also, please note that my mother’s side of the family is known for their exceptionally petite wrists, a trait I’m pleased to have inherited.) This giant, clunky, ill-fitting Fitbit would not be a comfortable accessory.
“Nope. Thanks anyway,” I said.
He pouted. Why wouldn’t I want to track my steps? It could count my calories and monitor my sleep patterns; I could enter challenges with other Fitbit fanatics and win badges that meant nothing in the real world–I certainly wasn’t going to be putting “Star Stair Climber!” on my resume; we could take walks together.
“No, thanks,” I reiterated.
More pouting. More grumbling. Why didn't I want to be healthier? Why didn't I want to waste my precious editing time listening to him talk about his stupid watch? Realizing how cold that last sentence sounded, I put the darn thing on to shut him up.
Except it hasn’t shut him up. “Did you sync up your Fitbit today?” he asks me every night. “How low is your battery?”
I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s way too big–so much so that I’ve gotten it caught on two doorknobs and a passing motorcyclist so far–and I hate the way it feels against my skin. More often than not, I forget to wear it during the day at all. I refuse to wear it at night for fear it will slip off my wrist and get lost under the bed, and trust me, I’d never hear the end of it until I got off my butt to retrieve it. Jason has chastised me several times for letting the battery die on it. When I do remember to sync the darn thing, he asks me why I haven’t synced it yet, because nobody could possibly only walk 832 steps in one day. (I’ve got news for you: I can.) When I do wear it, it spends most of its time buzzing to remind me what an out-of-shape shlub I am. I hate the thing.
This morning, I was looking at the Fitbit, thinking how very much it resembled a shackle, when Wednesday looked up at me plaintively and meowed. I looked at the cat. At the Fitbit. At the cat again.
That night, I’d forgotten once again about my unwanted handcuff when Jason reminded me to sync it with the app. As casually as possible, I scooped up Wednesday, plopped her in my lap, and turned on my phone. “Wow—almost 4000 steps!” Jason said, which was four times higher than any other day I’d logged this week. “You’re starting to get the hang of it!”
I wanted to slap him. Instead, I petted the cat, who gave me a healthy purr in return. The Fitbit registered fifty more steps just from the vibrations.
Who says dogs are man’s best friend?
Fine. If I don’t have to exercise with you, or prepare special meals, or do anything much to alter my own daily routine, great. That’s the kind of cheerleader I am.
Jason met his goals. He’s lost almost forty pounds (don’t get me started on how much easier it is for men to lose weight; I will only say here: !@#?!!) and ordered his super-expensive watch (which he did save for, though often from my paycheck) last month. He’s still not drinking soda, which really makes all of this worth it: see “dental bills” above.
But when he got his new watch, he held up the trusty Fitbit that had gotten him to this point and said “Want it?”
First off, I don’t feel the need to lose weight. A health issue I dealt with during the months he was exercising took care of my extra pounds. Secondly, his Fitbit was sized for a 6’5” man who originally outweighed me by a hundred pounds when he started. (Also, please note that my mother’s side of the family is known for their exceptionally petite wrists, a trait I’m pleased to have inherited.) This giant, clunky, ill-fitting Fitbit would not be a comfortable accessory.
“Nope. Thanks anyway,” I said.
He pouted. Why wouldn’t I want to track my steps? It could count my calories and monitor my sleep patterns; I could enter challenges with other Fitbit fanatics and win badges that meant nothing in the real world–I certainly wasn’t going to be putting “Star Stair Climber!” on my resume; we could take walks together.
“No, thanks,” I reiterated.
More pouting. More grumbling. Why didn't I want to be healthier? Why didn't I want to waste my precious editing time listening to him talk about his stupid watch? Realizing how cold that last sentence sounded, I put the darn thing on to shut him up.
Except it hasn’t shut him up. “Did you sync up your Fitbit today?” he asks me every night. “How low is your battery?”
I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s way too big–so much so that I’ve gotten it caught on two doorknobs and a passing motorcyclist so far–and I hate the way it feels against my skin. More often than not, I forget to wear it during the day at all. I refuse to wear it at night for fear it will slip off my wrist and get lost under the bed, and trust me, I’d never hear the end of it until I got off my butt to retrieve it. Jason has chastised me several times for letting the battery die on it. When I do remember to sync the darn thing, he asks me why I haven’t synced it yet, because nobody could possibly only walk 832 steps in one day. (I’ve got news for you: I can.) When I do wear it, it spends most of its time buzzing to remind me what an out-of-shape shlub I am. I hate the thing.
This morning, I was looking at the Fitbit, thinking how very much it resembled a shackle, when Wednesday looked up at me plaintively and meowed. I looked at the cat. At the Fitbit. At the cat again.
That night, I’d forgotten once again about my unwanted handcuff when Jason reminded me to sync it with the app. As casually as possible, I scooped up Wednesday, plopped her in my lap, and turned on my phone. “Wow—almost 4000 steps!” Jason said, which was four times higher than any other day I’d logged this week. “You’re starting to get the hang of it!”
I wanted to slap him. Instead, I petted the cat, who gave me a healthy purr in return. The Fitbit registered fifty more steps just from the vibrations.
Who says dogs are man’s best friend?
She thinks it's a special collar just for pretty kitties. Sucker.
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