I Drank The Kool-Aid

Yes, that is my new(-ish) Fitbit Flex on my wrist.

If you have spent any time at all here on Misdirected, you know that I have been pretty resistant to the idea of spending money on an item that performs functions that my cell phone handles adequately. In short: I am cheap. However, the arrival of Lor's new Fitbit Surge, courtesy of her sister, left us with an unallocated Fitbit Flex that we had received from my Mom a few weeks back. So, on Saturday, I linked it to my phone and strapped it on.

For those that don't know, Fitbit not only tracks your physical activity and sleep, but it also plugs you into the community of other Fitbit users around you. (In my case, Lor and my parents.) And it starts making comparisons between everyone's physical activity, to act as a motivational tool. For me, it was concrete evidence that I am not moving nearly as much as Lor is. Or my Mother. Or my Father. I am losing the physical activity war not only to my lovely wife, but to my retired parents as well. Not good.

How well am I doing? With two days worth of data, I can determine that I am apparently managing about 7,000 steps a day: roughly 3 miles a day. I was admittedly surprised to see how much of my physical activity is tied up in things like cleaning house and washing dishes - more than I would have expected. But, still, about 3,000 steps a day short of the 10,000+ steps that Fitbit wants me to be achieving on a daily basis. 

My initial reaction is resignation - I am a disabled gamer, for goodness sake. Who the heck expects me to manage 5 miles a day? But, I then compare my numbers to my father, who is also sedentary, also suffers from physical issues, and has got 20 years on me to boot. He is managing this level of activity, why the hell can't I? Humbling is a good word. Never mind comparing with my Mom who is apparently never ceasing to move. I can't manage 10,000 steps in a day, while my Mom can regularly manage over 20,000? Unacceptable.

Today is gym day, so I am very curious to see how the Fitbit Flex converts weight lifting into "steps". (Lor's shiny new one includes things like a heart rate monitor and multiple exercise modes, so she should be all set.) I am hoping that the combination of walking to the gym, then a workout, then walking home gets me in the ballpark of the golden 10,000 step goal that this demanding device is asking of me. But, if not, I think I have a plan. The Fitbit tracks "steps" actually by monitoring arm movement, not leg movement.

And I have a perfectly good guitar sitting in the corner, just waiting to help me game the system.

Maybe I Will Learn Some Thrash Metal,

- Hawkwind

The FitBit Blues

The glory of a goal achieved, the contentment of a job well done. This is how it feels to receive your "Marathon" achievement on your Fitbit, signifying you have put in 26 miles since you began wearing the device.

At least, I assume that is how it feels. I didn't earn the achievement - Lor did.

When the previously owned Fitbit entered our household, there was a little discussion as to who was going to wear it. However, I stood firm: my lovely wife should have it. She is more active than I am, she is also much more competitive than I am, and she is further along in the weight loss journey than I. Every argument I could think of was tossed into the fray. Once we got a look at the device and noticed that it had lots of exciting designer arm-band colors, another argument was applied: it could even be color-coordinated with outfits! Eventually, Lor gave in and accepted it, wondering at my insistent generosity, suspecting ulterior motives.

I might have had an ulterior motive or two for passing on the health monitor. The truth is actually simple if a bit embarrassing - I am afraid of 'em. After Lor fell immediately in love with the Fitbit she wanted to run out and buy me one as well. I told her  that there was "nothing her Fitbit can do that my cell phone can't!" Something to that effect. With raised voice and indignant tone. You kids and yer newfangled toys. I'll stay here in the corner with my Victrola and my black-and-white TV...

The cell phone argument is true, if fundamentally flawed. The fact is that, better than half the time, I forget to use all the nifty exercise-related apps I have built into my phone. I remembered a couple days ago to turn on Map My Walk as we entered Wal-Mart, for example. As we exited, I found out that I had walked over a mile around the store. I would pat myself on the back if it weren't for the fact that we are at Wal-Mart every week, and this was the first time I had ever thought to turn the app on. I have been shorting myself of logged exercise for months.

I think that the real problem is that the idea of being constantly monitored quite simply freaks me out. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but do I really want a monitor on me 24 hours a day? I know it is reporting to my Fitbit app, but who else is it reporting to? Is marketing data about my movements being saved and sold?  Yes, I know that is already happening with my cell phone, but I can turn the cell phone off if I am feeling unusually exposed. Not only is there no way to turn a wrist monitor off, it sort of defeats the whole purpose of wearing one.

Also, the sad truth is that there has developed a whole Fitbit team in Lor's family, all now competing with each other to see who can walk the furthest in any day or week. I know, if I get one, I will be invited to join the group. And will be hanging my head in shame every single day as everyone else crests 10,000 steps a day and I barely make 200 or something. Shame is not a powerful motivator for me. Instead, it makes me want to go hide in the corner and play video games.

Sigh. I know, I know. Time to join this century and ride the wave of Fitness Awareness or whatever they call it. I know Lor well enough to know that, before the end of the year, I too will be wearing a shiny new fitness monitor on my wrist. I know the minute I post this, Facebook will be filled with commentary about how behind the times I am.

But, whenever my time comes, and I am then getting my "Steps-Per-Day" ass kicked by my 8-year-old niece, just remember - I will silently hold you all responsible.

Fearing The Plastic Shackle,

- Hawkwind