My Fitbit Personally Victimized Me for a Week, but It Kind of Worked
By Christopher Rosa. Photos: Courtesy of Christopher Rosa.
In January 2017, I made a conscious decision to get healthier. But I didn't want to track my progress.
Why? Well, the scale terrifies me. It always has. I've attempted several weight loss "journeys" in the past; they were all different (low-carb, no-carb, only shakes, only tears), but they had one commonality: the scale. I was obsessed with it—like, unhealthily so. I'd beat myself up if I gained one pound, which is ridiculous. (Weight fluctuation is totally normal!)
Thankfully, I dropped this fixation and have been eating healthy and exercising for three months—without weighing myself. It's been great. So great, actually, that I started feeling the urge to track my progress. But I was afraid that I'd fall back into "obsession" territory. To combat this, I decided to try a one of those newfangled progress-tracking tools for a week to see how I did. I grabbed the new Fitbit Alta HR,{: rel=nofollow} thinking it was the perfect solution.
OK, there's no easy way to say this, but my Fitbit victimized me a little bit during my trial week. On the first day, I couldn't even get it on. I spent precisely 11 minutes trying to strap the thing onto my wrist. When I managed to finally get it on, it was upside down. And low on battery. (Oh yeah, apparently you have to charge Fitbits?! News to me. Shouldn't my sweat keep this damn thing alive?)
There was also the issue of how the Fitbit felt on my awkward wrist. One minute, it was too tight; the next, it was too loose. I started having flashbacks to the only time I attempted ice skating and couldn't find skates that fit, so I sat and watched other kids frolic while I ate a sad hot dog. The Fitbit was taunting me—just like that skating rink!
But after I properly set everything up, I was hooked. On my first real day with the Fitbit (which was actually, like, day three, because of all my false starts), I constantly checked the app to see how many steps I was logging. And when I say "constantly," I mean I literally peeked the steps after I walked from my couch to the bathroom. I'd never felt so good about doing such little activity. The Fitbit congratulated me when I walked to the bodega across the street. And when I slept! Maybe wearing the Fitbit wouldn't be as traumatic as setting it up?
My honeymoon with my Alta lasted precisely 29 hours. At first, I kept getting vibrating notifications that implored me to walk more. The little robot, whom I dubbed Frank, would send me eerily urgent messages—like "Feed me steps!"—that I tried very hard to ignore. But I couldn't—the vibrations shifted from mildly annoying to irksome to downright terrifying. Why wouldn't Frank just let me live? He was the fitness version of a Furby!
The sleep analysis that I started out loving also became a point of stress. I thought I logged a good seven hours of sleep one night, but Frank had the audacity to tell me I only slept for two. Two! What was my body doing for those other five hours? Knitting? Watching old episodes of Saved by the Bell?
This pattern continued for days. Frank would start the day by calling me out on my bad night's sleep. Then, he would shower me with praise and badges for exercising. But the second I got to my desk, the foreboding, "Walk!" messages started flooding in. My Fitbit and I were basically in a tumultuous, emotionally damaging relationship.
I abruptly broke things off with Frank after I had a nightmare about him. I dreamt that he came alive, turned blood-red, and started angrily critiquing my body. After that, I was done. No more steps for me.
The first day without Frank was weird—not weird because I missed him, but weird because of my habits. I found myself going out of my way to walk more. I took frequent trips to the office water fountain. I walked an extra 10 minutes at the gym. I even hopped off the subway a few stops early and chose to stroll the entire way back. When I went to bed that night, I put my phone on the floor so it wouldn't distract my sleep.
And that's when I realized Frank's pestering had actually worked. When he would nag me to walk, I did it (even if it was mostly to shut him up.) If he criticized my sleep the night before, I tried very hard the next night to make sure my sleep was on point. Admittedly, I did all of this just to prove Frank wrong—but something clicked. I changed my habits for the better.
I'm still toying with the idea of putting Frank back on. (Can I really come back from that nightmare?) In hindsight, I see that my time with him was actually really beneficial. Before Frank, I didn't put stock in the remaining 23 hours of a day if I had already exercised for an hour. I also thought I was getting great sleep, which turned out to be a huge lie. Frank brought all of this to light and, through his passive aggressive mind games, made me change. That robot! What a guy!
Oh, and one more thing: He also taught me that my heart rate increases when I watch Pretty Little Liars. The more you know!
This story originally appeared on Glamour.
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