Fitbitten: Who, Me?

Donkey gets Achy Breaky Ass-whupped by Giraffe

I’m not what you’d call competitive. Not exactly.

Okay. There’ve been moments. In my past. Like when I bent Hilda Kehler’s halo because she got to be Mary in the Christmas pageant instead of me. I’m not proud of messing with the Virgin Mary. But I was young. Plus I was a donkey, so what can you expect?

I’ve matured with age. Now I try to be less of an ass. Mostly I succeed. But last Christmas I got a Fitbit. My daughter-in-law had been raving about tracking her physical activity on what looked to me like a plastic toy watch. She said it gave her a wrist-tingle when she hit her goal of 10,000 steps a day. Fireworks exploded on its screen. She had me at wrist-tingle.

I needed a watch that watched me. One that applauded me for plodding through my day. Celebrated my successes. Santa delivered.

Ten thousand steps a day turned out to be a challenge for a sedentary writer, but I pushed through until I felt my first wrist-prickle. Fireworks detonated across my Fitbit’s screen. Imaginary crowds in the stands roared their approval. I was hooked.

From then on, I wore my Fitbit everywhere. I even wore it to a formal dance (it clashed with my glitzy gown, but I wanted every rumba step to register).

I loved flaunting my Fitbit in front of my friends. “I need to check my numbers,” I’d say casually. They’d roll their eyes. I didn’t care. My step-count was climbing. I soon got a notification from Fitbit: “Congratulations! With 70 lifetime miles, you’ve earned your ‘March of the Penguins’ Badge.’”

OMG. I’d marched as far as emperor penguins march to get to their breeding grounds! I couldn’t resist gloating. I texted my daughter-in-law: What should I do now? Breed a new baby brother for your hubby? Ha ha.

The joke was on me. “Your Penguin badge is peanuts,” she scoffed.

Turned out she’d just earned her Giraffe badge. She’d walked the 500-mile distance of the Serengeti. Giraffes trump Penguins. This penguin was pissed.

I had to up my count — and quick — if I was ever to outdo that smug giraffe. My baser nature kicked in. Somewhere in my distant past, a donkey brayed, then whispered in my ear: What if you exaggerate your wrist movements while typing? Hmm. Soon, every time I hit the spacebar, my wrist lurched sideways, then snapped back down. Done just right, it netted me some extra steps. Yes!

When I came down with a cold, a braying in my brain said: Why not fasten your Fitbit to your shih tzu’s collar? My dog-walker never even noticed. When the dog later took to his mat, I hooked the Fitbit onto my metronome. Tick-tock — take a walk.

My step count was climbing — hee haw! — but so was my guilt. Legit workouts were called for. When fitness classes didn’t get me to my goal, I added country line dancing and racked up some serious steps doing redneck aerobics to the beat of Billy Ray Cyrus.

It worked. Fitbit told me I’d earned my “London Underground Badge.” I’d walked the length of the world’s first underground railway! “This really lays the tracks for big triumphs in the future,” applauded Fitbit.

I made tracks to tell the giraffe. She smiled and said she was no longer strolling the Serengeti. While I’d been stuck in the London Underground, she’d perambulated all of “Italy.” AND she’d earned her “Cowboy Boot Badge” for 50,000 steps taken on one all-day hike. No fair! I’d been hoofing it with the King of Country Music, and I only got my lousy “Urban Boot Badge.” My Achy Breaky Heart broke. There was no catching her.

“Let’s end this silly competition,” she said.

“You’re right,” I said. “We’re being juvenile.”

We hugged on it. I patted her back once or twice. Only a jackass would have checked her wrist to see if those pats registered.

(If you enjoyed this post by Judy Millar, you might enjoy this one too.)