I’m involved in a new love-hate relationship.
Except it’s not with a person, but with my new fitness tracking device.
Similar to a Fitbit, it’s called a Leaf and it looks like a neat piece of jewelry and can be worn as a necklace, bracelet or clip. Guided by some inner working, it will track your number of steps, your activity level, calories burned and will sound an alarm at a set interval if you remain inactive for too long (which is terrific to remind me to get up from my computer desk and move around.)
In addition, this handy device also records your sleep patterns and can indicate if you are getting enough rest and if that sleep is good-quality rest or a disturbed, fitful version. It will also track meditative breathing, recommending you commit to 10 minutes per day.
The device is synced to your phone, so whenever you like, you can download the data and check the status.
Much like a first crush, I was enamoured of the device. I was on holidays and had plenty of time to check my status. I ran on the treadmill and enjoyed seeing my graph soar. I went cross-country skiing and was thrilled when I reached a whopping 434 per cent of my daily fitness goal. Every step I took had added value, as I kept thinking about my growing total.
The downside was that it was showing my sleep patterns were disturbed and suggested I wasn’t getting enough zzzs. While I didn’t feel sleepy at the time, after reading it, the information had the unfortunate effect of actually making me feel more tired than before.
Things then came to a screeching halt when a nasty stomach bug hit my house. As anyone who has spent time lying prone on a bathroom floor will attest, the most exercise you can accomplish in the throws of such a flu is to drag your body back to bed or raise your head just enough to sip some ginger ale.
It was then that the blossoming relationship showed it’s dark side. Suddenly the movement reminder alarm became a major irritant. Then I was greeted by the news that I had met zero per cent of my fitness goals and didn’t even excel at sleeping as I wasn’t getting much in the way of good quality slumber.
I searched the app frantically for some kind of excuse button. I wanted desperately to explain to my fitness tracker that I hadn’t fallen off the wagon due to a lack of motivation, but was succumbing to an attack of unwanted germs. I want an asterisk to put on those days of the calendar, something to note, “Tracy was sick, not lazy.”
But I was out of luck. My zero fitness days are now part of my permanent record. Suddenly the device around my neck seemed to be weighing me down with guilt that I wasn’t living up to the expectations of my electronic personal trainer. And yet, I’m not ready to break up this newfound connection.
I guess I need to give this relationship a little longer than a week before deciding if it’s worth hanging onto or gets the boot.
