I hear more from my Fitbit than from my kids

I am the proud first time owner of a Fitbit. I gleefully took it out of the package and was about to put it on my wrist and start walking when I read those words that always strike terror in my heart:

To start, download the app.

Uh oh. I never have luck with cyber-instructions. The Fitbit app was no exception and after being unable to download the critical information to my Fitbit, I decided to phone a Fitbit "advocate." After being told Fitbit was experiencing unusually high caller volume and I would have to wait a minimum of 10 minutes, I decided to try the on-line system. This approach requires you to type back and forth with an "advocate." After 20 minutes with Benjamin, I finally got the Fitbit to come alive.

Now the Fitbit and I are in regular communication.

Just today it complimented me for walking 30 minutes. I have also received congrats on earning my first Boat Shoe badge. (I have no idea why a boat shoe is an appropriate reward for walking on land. ) The Fitbit app asks "how did you sleep?" and "What have you eaten today?" I have heard from Fitbit more in the past three days than I have heard from my children in the past three weeks.

Not all the Fitbit messages are welcome. I do not enjoy what I call the " Lazy Ass" admonition. The watch tells me to "GO GO GO" when there is a lack of movement . I do not like Fitbit making me fell guilty when I am stretched out on the sofa streaming a movie. Or two.

Whenever I want to interact with my Fitbit, I simply tap the watch face twice and messages appears. This is different from texting my children. It might be days before I get a response from them. Maybe the news that I have earned my VERY FIRST Boat Shoe badge will get a quicker reply.

Camry Owner Manuals Have More Pages than Gone with the Wind

The glove compartment in my brand new Toyota Camry is just big enough to hold all the instruction manuals. Coming in at just under 1000 pages, the 5-volume set of Owner Manuals is the automotive equivalent of Gone with the Wind (a mere 733 pages)

All those pages are necessary to explain mysterious dashboard abbreviations like BSM, RCTA, TRAC, PCS and EPS. I know about the Blind Spot Monitor and Rear Cross Traffic Alert (a fancy term for rearview camera) but have no idea what the other abbreviations mean.

The state-of-the-art multimedia system is truly beyond my comprehension. It took me a semester in high school to learn the intricacies of an electric typewriter. There is no way I can understand written directions that include terms like ID3Tag, WMA, MPC and ISO 9660 format.

Young people don’t need manuals. I asked my daughter to help explain the car’s technology. I reached for the 5 volume set of explanations. “We don’t need that, Mom” she explained. After a few punches of this button and that button, she had the system figured out. She explained how everything worked at a rapid fire pace. I am old. I no longer do anything at a rapid fire pace. I just smiled and pretended I understood.

The glove compartment in my old Camry held maps, pencils, pens, a Sudoku puzzle or two, insurance forms and a variety of lip balms. There is no room for such necessities in my new car since the 6 volume owner’s manual sucks up all the space. Now there is only enough extra room for proof of car insurance and

registration.

Confronted with hundreds and hundreds of pages of mind numbing automotive how-to’s, I am taking a page from Gone with the Wind. Just like Scarlett O’Hara, “I won’t think of it now….I’ll go crazy…I’ll think of it all tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

I’m Old but I’m Funny

Growing old obviously poses risks.   We seniors learn about them every day. News stories, television specials, advertisements all remind us of the perils of old age. Health problems are a big topic.   After watching a television commercial about ocular myopathy, I went panic stricken to my eye doctor.  I was convinced m

y fuzzy eyesight was the harbinger of total blindness if not the first stages of a fatal brain tumor.

The good doctor examined my eyes.  “You can tell me the truth,” I bravely told him.  “How much longer before I lose my eyesight and/or die?”

He said my eyeglass prescription was out of date and I needed stronger magnification.

Television has truly become a health hazard.  An NCIS episode may be forgettable but commercial warnings about insomnia, incontinence, dry eye, dry mouth, dementia, COPD or diabetes are not.   The list is endless.  Even worse, the cure seems worse than the disease.  Television ads for “miracle drugs” feature older people laughing and cavorting with their grandchildren.  Obviously these clueless octogenarians cannot hear the disembodied voice over warning of side effects like bloody stools, suicidal thoughts, nausea and growing extra limbs.  I keep waiting for that giggling grandpa to start foaming at the mouth as he staggers crazily through the yard, babbling incoherently and spewing liquids from every orifice.

Worrying about the Awful Things That Are Sure to Happen Now That I am Old is definitely not healthy.  But even if health concerns can be corralled, other life happenings are apt to raise anxiety.  When is my adult child going to get a job?  How do I survive on a fixed income?  What is the Cloud anyway?

The only solution I can offer is humor.

Dylan Thomas wrote “Do not go gentle into that good night…rage, rage against the dying of the light.”   Good advice but I plan to laugh my way into eternity.

Excerpt from:  I Must Be Old, I Have a Pill Dispenser, all rights reserved.