And jeepers: What are these wrinkles doing here? I did not have such wrinkles last year.
See what I mean? I'm freaking impossible.
I'm not completely sure, then, why my long-suffering husband decided to get me a Fitbit for Christmas. "Aren't I awful enough?" I asked, when I unwrapped the generous gift. "Is this an experiment? Are you trying to see just how self-inflictingly awful I can become?"
"You know you want it," he said.
But here's the thing: My Fitbit doesn't like me.
I run for 30 minutes and it says I've burned 148 calories. I dance for 30 minutes; calories consumed: 148. I walk slowly, meanderingly, philosophically with my son for 30, count 'em, minutes and guess what? I've burned 148 calories.
My Fitbit is making fun of me.
Or how about this: I run up and down and up and down and up and down the stairs, doing the laundry, doing the cleaning, doing the things this woman does. According to my Fitbit, I've done no such thing. Indeed, my Fitbit must think I live in a rancher: It says (daily now) that I've climbed precisely 0 stairs.
Or I sleep for just three hours and it claims I've slept for ten. What the hell, Fitbit? What the hell? I'm working over here. Working. Can't you see?
Or I run around at the grocery store, then run around the kitchen, then run from pantry to stove to pantry—run, I say—and after two whole hours have gone by, my Fitbit declares that I've had 15 active minutes.
What? Scraping, chopping, stirring isn't active, Fitbit? What do you want from me? Please tell.
I don't know, or I do know, and I've already said.
My Fitbit doesn't like me.
It's not the first to feel that way.
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