I’m not sure quite how to put this. I really don’t want to hurt you. But I think we need to take a break.
I know, we haven’t been together long, but your degree of clinginess has been suffocating me. You literally never let go of my wrist, and every time I get an email or a text, you have to buzz like crazy and let me know. Well, guess what? I can check my own messages without being treated like Pavlov’s dog.
And here’s another thing. You’re always judging, judging, judging. Sure, you give a little virtual cheer when I reach my daily goal, but I can tell you’re just being sarcastic. So what if I set my goal as 100 steps a day? It’s doable! Which is more than I can say about that ridiculous 10,000-steps goal that everybody else in the world seems to have! I can’t tell you how weird it is to be chatting with a friend late at night and have them suddenly get up and pace, because it’s quarter to midnight and they’re only at 9,000 steps. I ask you, and I ask you this sincerely, who the heck cares?
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There are lots of other facets to you, bells and whistles like totaling up my mileage, and even asking me about my sleep. What business is that of yours? The way I see it, unless I am sleepwalking, there is nothing about my nocturnal habits that should concern you. Let me have my space, for heaven’s sake!
I have tried taking you off in the shower, at the beach, leaving you on my bedside table. But still you bug me, with regular email notifications about reaching (or more likely not reaching) my weekly goals. Sometimes I just want to do something drastic, like package you up and return you to Amazon. But something tells me you’d still find a way to keep in contact. Worse, you might start sharing the intimate details of my daily slothfulness with your next owner! “Congratulations! You have reached your goal of 50,000 steps today! Elise Seyfried has yet to break 50! Don’t be like Elise Seyfried!”
I realize that the simplest solution is to just let you wind down and not recharge you, but for some reason that feels like cheating. I need to be brave and face you, woman to piece of rubber with a battery in it, and tell you how I feel. So here goes:
I feel guilty, 24/7, when I’m with you. Every time I sit down (which is, admittedly, most of the time), I am acutely aware that I “should” be up and moving. Listen, sweetheart, I am already plenty guilty about my eating habits and my sloppy housecleaning! I don’t need to get depressed about just taking a load off my feet.
So let’s just agree to put a little distance (say, 10,000 steps) between us for a while. You can chill in a drawer, and I can live my slower-paced life without constant reminders that I should be doing better. What say I stop and smell the roses, and maybe you can relax too. I will gladly store you right next to my Jack Johnson CDs, and hopefully you can catch that vibe. I swear it will do you good.
My dear Fitbit, let’s not say goodbye. Now, now, don’t cry! As Dorothy said to the Tin Man, “You'll get all rusted!” You’ve just done what you were made to do, I get that. It’s not you, really. It’s me.