Wrist warnings and other dangers

In addition to being bombarded by all things OOO/Agent Orange (Oh Orange One/Self Explanatory – OK President Trump) I'm now being hounded by a delightful gift (?) presented to me over the holiday season.

The Child (kid) was kind enough to furnish the present to his loving, kind and tender mother—did I mention humble? I shall be grateful even if I have to fake it.

This particular gadget has caused a great deal of anxiety, depression and major debate here in the home.

Before you conclude that I have totally (not partially), taken all leave of my senses, allow me to elaborate—like you had a choice. I speak of an item that is worn like a watch and can perform “many, many, a tremendous amount of VERY important” functions. I'm sorry folks but I cannot resist slipping in just a few OOO references from time to time.

Cut me some slack as the material is just too good, or hideous in this case, to let slip by. I hope this serves as a digression because I'm counting it as one.

Getting back to this gizmo worn on one's arm, it's kind of the modern version of a Swiss Army Knife, minus most everything of actual use. That didn't come out quite as planned because certainly the gadget is wonderful in all ways and I commend The Child for his kindness.

Now that I have forced all to pull on the infamous boots of the farming variety, I will tell you that it's one of those Fitbits. Not only do I don one of these constant reminders of my inactivity on a daily basis, but Perpetual (life partner) has also joined the club.

For those who have never heard of such an item, I shall try to explain in layman terms. It's basically a watch but it keeps track of heart rate, steps taken per day and other data in order to keep one on the road to health and prosperity.

It works in conjunction with a cell phone in terms of keeping an eye on calories burned, miles walked, food intake and all kinds of interesting stuff.

As you might imagine, this has been turned into something of a competitive nature, to say the least. Todd, Louise, Zoe, Marz and I gaze in amazement as Perpetual checks to see how many calories he burned on his mad dash to the fridge for another soda. (In case it slipped by, those are the names of the occupants of the house. Indeed we have a cat house and get those minds out of the gutter please; this is a family paper.)

Just last night we learned that when P suffers from one of his sugar drops, due to not eating at regular intervals, his heart rate goes up! Isn't that simply delightful news?

I am now reminded daily via a buzzing sensation on my left arm that it's “time to move.” The evil accessory will not let it go either. I have to spend a certain amount of time perching at the computer for such mundane things as, oh, making a living but this thingamabob does not care one iota.

Perpetual and I have now morphed into that old couple that competes on a daily basis in terms of who ails the most. We are in our early fifties for crying in a bucket yet I found myself taking his blood pressure last night in order to ascertain if the Fitbit heart rate monitor coincided with the BP kit. Things are booming in this household for sure.

It is fairly clear that we must get lives and pronto. On a good note, I have actually managed to shed some pounds once again. Whilst talking to a classmate of mine on the phone the other day, he mentioned the class reunion. I assured him that because it's a “thin year” for me, I would more than likely make an appearance. (I know that was a total digression again but I needed to say something kind about my new implement of torture that adorns my left wrist. I certainly do not want to anger this device as there could be serious repercussions.)

At least this “deal” has aided me by alerting me to spikes in heart rate. Coincidentally, said spikes appear to occur before, during and after hearing something about yet another atrocity committed by President Steve Bannon—I mean OOO—wait, I mean Agent Orange—hold it, I'm trying to say President Trump. Whew!

Uh oh, the cattle prod, also known as the Fitbit has told me to “get off my tuchas” so I shall take that cue. I will commence dancing wildly about the region as TTC (Todd the Cat) and the other members of this asylum dash for cover.

THE END (Interstate Crosscheck – For those who are new, simply check out some of my recent pieces by going to communitynewslinesville.com and clicking on the Lisa's Rants & Raves portion.)