You’ve all seen them. The rubber bracelets are everywhere, tracking our steps, our activity level, our sleep patterns, whether our shoes match our outfits and the weather.
Someone, somewhere, decided that since we’re no longer wearing multiple rubber bracelets exhorting people to Live Strong! or Beat Diabetes or End Zombification, we needed a new reason to wear rubber bracelets.
Personally, I think old Crocs are being recycled to make these fitness trackers. Because do you see anyone wearing Crocs any more? Not so much, right? Where did they all go? Think about it.
So I gave in to the New Year lure of getting more fit, being more active. Optimistic enough to be lauded, vague enough to be virtually unquantifiable. Until you slap that little tattletale on your wrist and start tracking your steps. The one I bought is a Fit Bit, in a lovely shade of pink which could appropriately be called raspberry.
My Fit Bit thinks I’m in a coma. I’m fairly certain it would dial 9-1-1 if it could, and tell them to come resuscitate me.
Between working on the upcoming writers conference (#PPWC2015), writing, email feuds, Pinterest and Facebook, I can spend a lot of time in my uber-comfy, absurdly ergonomic office chair.
But I can always see the pink bracelet, quietly shaming me, ready at a moment’s notice to tell me that geriatric hip replacement patients get more daily exercise than I do.
Because I’m not a total nincompoop, and because I hate wasting money, I decided to allow the device to motivate me. I’ve upped my water intake, because I’m not going to slip into astronaut diapers every morning. More water in means more water out, so I at least have to get up and walk to the bathroom more often.
The other things I’ve started doing is keeping an eye on the clock. If a half-hour passes without me getting up, I lunge to my feet and run up and down the stairs a few times. For a given value of both “lunge” and “run.”
(WARNING: If you have hardwood floor and/or wooden stairs, do not attempt to copy my efforts in your stocking feet. Unless you enjoy full-body contact with a wall, twisting your ankle, or catapulting down the stairs ass over teakettle while your cats mock you.)
(ANOTHER WARNING: If you have cats, you already know they’re going to mock you no matter what. But it’s easier to tolerate if you aren’t bleeding from the ears or weaving in and out of consciousness.)
My goal is to increase my daily steps by a thousand on a weekly basis, until I reach the magic goal of 10,000 a day.
Before you start snickering about how out of shape I am, let me tell you about the second thing my little Fit Bit pal does. It tracks my sleeping patterns.
I am currently ranked at 99% sleep efficiency.
I challenge anyone out there not in a coma to beat that.