On Sept. 2, 2015, in an effort of self-improvement, I purchased a popular fitness tracker, a wrist device that tracks your activity.
“Honey,” I said to the wife when I came home with my new purchase, “you are going to be so pleased with me. I bought a new fitness tracker so that I can become the man of your dreams.”
“Oh darling,” she said lovingly, “you are already so much more than I deserve. I can’t imagine how you could be any more perfect.”
OK, I was paraphrasing there. She actually said, “If it tracks trips to the pantry for cheese curls, your fitness tracker just might explode.”
And so I began my quest for better health. I downloaded the fitness app on my phone and plugged my weight, 162 pounds of rippling cheese curls; my height, 68 inches when stretched out on a sofa, and my fitness goals, to achieve the physical dimensions of Lou Ferrigno (minus his Hulky green skin) in 10,000 steps.
When I shared my fitness goals with the wife she said, “I am conflicted, my love. Why in the world would you mess with the perfection I see before me? Your very being radiates Michelangelo’s David, the most beautiful man ever carved in stone…”
OK, I was paraphrasing again. She actually said, “Whelp, good luck with that.”
For months, nay even years, I became a slave to the fitness tracker. If at the end of a day I hadn’t gotten my 10,000 steps, I would run up and down the stairs until I got that magic vibration on my wrist when my tracker would congratulate me on achieving my daily goal.
But then I started feeling that if I accomplished my goal, I deserved a little reward, like a bag of cheese curls or a bowl of ice cream.
If I doubled my goal, 20,000 steps, a deep dish pizza and a tasty lager would be the perfect reward.
“Love of my life,” the wife said, “I am in awe of your quest for perfection, but how do you make an Adonis more perfect? Quite simply, you can’t.”
OK, a little more paraphrasing. She actually said, “You better back off the junk food, hon. You’re getting bigger, and not Ferrigno big.”
Taking note, I compared my statistics entered into my phone three years ago to my current stats of 180 pounds and 67 inches.
“What the heck happened?” I said to the wife. “I’ve gained 18 pounds and am an inch shorter. This fitness tracker is a liar! If it had pants they would be on fire!” And into the trash it went.
It’s been several weeks since I’ve gone without the fitness tracker. No goals to achieve, no rewards to be consumed. I’m free. I’m free at last.
“My beloved,” the wife said, “you are one gorgeous hunk of man candy.”
I’m getting pretty good at this paraphrasing thing. What she actually said was, “Did you eat the last piece of my dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt?”
Licking my fingers I said, “Yep. The only way to become a gorgeous hunk of man candy is to eat the candy. Right?”