Fitbit(ch)

There are 2 types of people in this world; those who are mentally stable enough for Fitbit ownership, and then there’s me.

To be honest, I thought a Fibit was a bracelet old people wore to encourage them to walk around more. And before you tell me I'm a grandmother of 2, let me first tell you to shut your pie hole.

So I was surprised when my super cool grown kids began wearing them, and then showed me all of it's features. Being the person I am, who daily monitors my weight on a scale that ridicules me by blinking red or green, I became convinced that I now also needed to track my calories eaten, calories allotted, resting bpm, sleep patterns, exact number of steps I take each day, as well as the breakdown of miles I've walked, and floors I've climbed, all of which is rewarded with invisible badges and a slightly startling vibration that for someone who's been electrocuted as many times as I have, sends a brief panic through my soul every time I reach a goal.

I might be a bit of an extreme personality.

I know. I'm as surprised as you are.

Needless to say, my husband and I became proud Fitbit owners, which some would argue only feeds my obsessive tendencies, but I would argue that it doesn’t effect anyone else, so mind yo business...until the night I received a Fitbit notification that my son challenged me in a Workweek Hustle. What.Is.Thissss?

Well, I'll tell you what that was. A gauntlet thrown. It was the 2016 adult version of Red Rover and I'd just been called over. The unleashing of a very dark competitive side, and with it came phrases like, 'Bring it' and 'Goin down'.

And so it began.

The repetitive laps around our dining room table to Pitbull songs. The constant strolling of the grandchildren up and down the driveway. The blisters. The shin splints. The tan line dilemma. The thought that I might have to quit writing. The quiet marching during massage sessions. The strategic high intensity Zumba playlists. The realization that my tombstone could say, 'Death by Fitbit.' My daughter's broken toe against the coffee table when she tried to keep up with me. Finding my husband locked in our bedroom taking secret steps. Jogging in place while we fight over keeping secrets. The marriage changing moment when we both realized that sex counts steps...for the person on top. Lying in bed at 11:30pm checking everyone's step counts. Jumping up for final laps before the clock strikes midnight. Fitbit egging it all on with rude taunts that someone just 'blew by me' or that someone else was 'breathing down my neck.'

All of which can end with sitting on the toilet the next morning and receiving the notification that someone snagged first because they waited until after midnight to sync their damn Fitbit.

Noooooooooooo!!!!

Basically, I've been forced to take 100,000 steps for every 5 days.

So it should really come as no surprise when I, the person who'd rather take a fork to the eye than go to the doctor, woke my husband and asked him to take me to the emergency room, and then actually used the word debilitating when the doctor asked me to describe the pain in my lower back. But hey, I beat the person who'd arrived before me in the speeding ambulance to the front desk, so boom.

Diagnosis:
Kidney stone, no.
Gallbladder, no.
Pulled muscle and thoracic strain...ding ding ding, we have a winner.

Treatment plan:
Compression, heat, Motrin, muscle relaxers...and lots and lots of walking.

 
Okay, I added that last part. I'm sure the doctor just forgot to say it.
 

Shari Courter has been married to her high school sweetheart for 23 years. They have 4 children, 1 daughter-in-law, 1 son-in-law, 1 grandson and 1 granddaughter. She's a Licensed Massage Therapist, Zumba instructor, freelance writer, blogger and published author with stories in 5 of the Not Your Mother's Books anthology series. You can follow Shari on Facebook or at Close Courters Blog where she's known for openly sharing her family's many (mis)adventures. Be prepared to hear the good, the bad and the holy crap. 

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