When you realise you’re in an abusive relationship… with your tech.
You know it’s absurd. You haven’t even attempted a jog for 10 years. You don’t have the stamina or the inclination to stagger around more than a quarter-loop of Central Park, and your favorite yoga pose–if you had one–would be Corpse (the Savasana pose, just lying on the floor).
And yet… you get conned.
Emerging “well-hydrated” from what could only loosely be described as a business lunch, you wander into the Outdoor Specialist store next to the office. Mannequins with six-packs like Rocky’s taunt you from every corner.
Intoxicated by the heady perfume of rubber, fleece and Teflon, you buy everything you lay eyes on. The camel bag, barefoot running shoes, ten elasticated Gortex t-shirts (for climbing Everest), the bluetooth heart-rate belt, eight tubes of fluorescent slime claiming to supply the strength and energy of a Gladiator… and of course… the smartwatch.
The awful thing is, you’ve only got yourself to blame for the agonising pressure you’re feeling now. It’s been two weeks, and the sum total of your efforts is three attempted runs (approximately two blocks of wheezing), followed by some surprisingly brutal ‘stretching’ sessions: and you’ve only burned the calories in a small gluten-free cookie, as that bastard of a watch keeps reminding you.
There’s no escape. It’s counting each lazy step, and every minute spent on the couch. And then there are the passive-aggressive little bleets of “Hey Steve, long time no see! Fancy a run round the park?”. It’s like some kind of fitness-obsessed stalker. In desperation, you throw the damn thing in the tumble dryer–hoping it will confuse this for your body running a marathon– and order a very large Pizza. With a stuffed crust, and extra pepperoni.