Fitbit – the death of middle aged men. OK, that sounds a bit too dramatic. But seriously; Fitbit equals Death.
So a few years back I got into the whole workout thing. Dropped thirty plus pounds, felt good, looked good, ate well. OK, that is a lie. I ate chicken and salad. Yerp, chicken and salad. Oh man I got tired of that crap. Mexican restaurant? Pollo y ensalada. French restaurant? Poulet et salade. Japanese ? チキンとサラダ. German? Hähnchen und Salat. Da fuq? It is all the same.
So plan at that time is going grand, working the free weights, riding the exercise bike, you name it. Really, really enjoying my five tortilla chips and one tablespoon of salsa. Fries? Oh yeah baby, I will take the kid’s portion please, oh no, no catsup, that has sugar. Got to the point where I was almost looking thin. Then “snap.”
Well, more precisely “pop.” See I was doing some shoulder presses and the left shoulder just went. Drove myself to the hospital where apparently the nurse inadvertently popped it back in. That hurt. I know the drill, this was the fourth time in my life on that shoulder. The doctor just then had no choice but to call it a “sprain.” Whatever. Can I get a Percocet now? Tough to stay on track in a sling.
Fast forward a few years, a few double whoppers with large fries, a few chocolate sundaes, a few of my lovely woman’s chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, and well, right back to being…“obese.” Now I know, I know. Obese is a strong word. Body shaming? Naw, it is what it is. BMI of 25? Uh huh, when I was 14. This picture pretty well tells the tale of my “fat logic.” Frankly, I could not handle the BMI truth.
So, my goal is now 185 pounds. That still makes me “overweight.” A BMI of 25? That would be me at 179 pounds. We will see how it looks, but more important, how it feels.
So during that time span of eating all the good stuff, along comes the internet of things. Not too keen on having my fridge send me a text message with a picture of expired eggs and moldy cheese. Shunned it for the most part. Some is cool. Like Fitbit. Trouble is, Fitbit equals Death. Maybe not death to a twenty something, but pretty well death to a middle aged dude. Let me explain.
The device is like a wrist watch. It tracks movement, heart rate, etc. Some do GPS, I guess if you are running? That’s groovy but let’s be honest here: Running? That sounds sucky! Parenthetically I note all I have to do is shoot Shana in the knee, and the bear will most likely lose interest in me. The real benefit of Fitbit is the phone app that tracks your food. Scan a bar code, plug it in, and away you go. That is why, seriously, Fitbit equals Death. See, once accountable, then who you going to lie to? Fitbit? It don’t care. That’s right, only lying to yourself. Tell yourself that Denny’s Grand Slam has 300 calories? Run with that and continue of your fat ass ways. Don’t exercise? Yerp, Fitbit tracks that too. I can comfortably state that the only “goal” I reach consistently is “sleep.” Got that one down pat.
So, I want a double cheeseburger. I want Ice Cream. I want a dozen tacos on taco Tuesdays. I want it all. A small part of me has died in this quest. Fitbit has killed my lack of accountability. Took me the better part of 50 years to get that fully evolved, then internet of things, small wrist watch, and poof: Dead. That’s right, just dead. Middle aged dude has a nanny. Middle aged dude has the NSA and Google tracking his caloric intake. Middle aged dude can’t eat the deep fried Twinkies, the DQ Blizzard, the Snickers bar and come home to supper. Nope, Fitbit killed all that.
At some point I will update the progress. Till then, should you get one, realize part of you will die. That part that turns to food for comfort. The part that says “go ahead it is only one cookie.” The whisper in your ear; “go ahead, it is a long drive, you need a snack.” Yeah, that glorious part.
Fitbit equals Death.