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Illustration by Drew Shannon
This Mother’s Day I had foisted upon me the gift of a Fitbit. One knows that as a mother, it behooves one to love, celebrate and be delighted by any gift a child presents. From the droopy dandelion bouquet picked by a toddler to a postmillennial gadget of questionable utility given with wild enthusiasm by a thirtysomething son.
My fitness-crazed son was beyond excited to get me started on the Fitbit, showing off the fast charge, setting up the corresponding phone app, encouraging me to “interface” with it so I could see all the cool functions it had.
Did I see that in addition to how many steps I took daily, it would give me no end of valuable information like how many hours I slept? My response was, “You mean I have to sleep with it?”
Not only that, I was informed that I should shower and swim with it, too. Now, I am someone who has to remove every piece of jewellery and any other attachment as soon as I get home in order to feel comfortable, and certainly before I get into bed. I was now expected to be manacled to this electronic overseer 24/7. I didn’t know how much longer I could feign enchantment.
I dutifully donned the apparatus and got on with my day knowing that some app techie somewhere across the planet was monitoring my activity levels and bodily functions, and was even commenting on them. Buzzing my step counts, buzzing me to get up and move, buzzing me to ask what activity I was doing, buzzing me congratulations on achieving step milestones!
Oh, the indignity of it all.
Well, after a couple of nights of my wrist buzzing me awake, I made the executive decision that I would not wear it to bed. Too bad if I developed atrial fibrillation in my sleep. Yes, apparently the Fitbit can diagnose arrhythmias, too. I’d just have to deal with my wayward heart in the morning.
I also had to relocate the Fitbit, heretofore also known as FB, from my bedroom at night since its buzzing of useless alerts disturbed my sleep, and I had not yet sufficiently interfaced with it to know how to deactivate said alerts.
So I left it in my study. After a few days, I kind of often forgot to put it on, risking the scolding the FB would give me for detecting suboptimal activity levels.
And then, this may be a Freudian subconscious thing, but after owning the FB for less than one month, I seemed to have lost it.
The thing is, I was performing in a theatre production that was dated in the 1920s. So, of course, I couldn’t wear a Fitbit on stage. I removed it from my wrist at the dress rehearsal and remember deliberately placing it in what I deemed to be a safe and memorable location, which, for the life of me, I could not recall. I only noticed it was missing after the four-day run of the play and then summoned the whole cast and crew to a venue wide search for the vanished Fitbit.
Was this intelligent instrument also sensitive to my indifference thus attaching itself to a more willing participant? In a huff it may well have deleted its “Find My Fitbit” feature and has since remained elusive, refusing any syncing attempts with my phone’s FB app.
Maybe, I figured, that’s what happens when you foist new age technology upon sixtysomethings with limited interfacing capability. My son was particularly dismayed by the FB’s disappearance, and I admit I actually missed the camaraderie we were starting to develop.
Then, after 10 FB-free days, I found it! I conducted another even more comprehensive search, rummaging through every pouch, bag, and coat pocket – and, eureka! There it was, tucked into the breast pocket of a jacket I hardly ever wear, which I had dutifully put away in the armoire after one of the shows (I had gone out with a friend for a postshow cosmo, which may explain the memory lapse).
What a joyful reunion! The battery still had 12 per cent – like it had been waiting for me. I immediately informed my son who answered me in capital letters – “WHERE”– was he rejoicing or reprimanding?
No matter, my FB and I will resume our fitness journey, happily ever after, stepping along into the sunset.
Sylvie Leone lives in Toronto.