THE FITTERBIT
You know how it is. You get dumped by your boyfriend, lose your job and are then told you’re a fatty and at risk of diabetes or heart disease unless you lose weight drastically. So much for comfort eating; doesn’t bring you much comfort does it? Or maybe you don’t know how it is; maybe you are not that unfortunate, though I am not saying I was unlucky – I had brought it all on myself.
I admit I am not the easiest person to get on with. Alright, if you want the whole, unpleasant, truth, I am not – was not – a nice person. Looking back as far as I can see with my mind’s eye, I never have been. I wasn’t exactly a bully at school, but all my classmates steered clear of me which made me come on a bit strong when I got lonely. Then they avoided me even more. They had operated social distance policy around me long before a similar idea had ever occurred to Boris Johnson. Despite having all the right parts being in good working order, it took me two years after leaving school to get a boyfriend. When I did, I thought, right mate, you’re going nowhere else and I told him straight what would happen if he so much as looked at another girl, yet he still dared do it. Men, eh? Well, I am sure he must have more than looked at her because I caught them in bed together. Angry? I think I may have broken his arm, but he was asking for it, right?
The same day – same ruddy day – I got called into the office at work, a beauty parlour. The boss said she could forgive me not being beautiful – cheek! – but I could at least smile and be pleasant to the customers and hadn’t she warned me about it before? I said I hadn’t come across a customer yet that was worth smiling at. That was when she handed me my P45. I think I may have broken her nose.
It all gave me quite a turn and I had a dizzy spell that worried me so off I went to the doctor’s. He was one of these modern GPs who strongly recommended a non-Mars Bar low-cake high-lettuce diet and some healthy exercise.
He said: “You’re obese.”
“No,” I said like a fool, “O’Brien.”
“I mean you are obese, too fat, overweight, roly-poly,” he said, labouring the point I think you’ll agree.
I may have broken his computer.
Sorry. I’m getting into my story and I haven’t even introduced myself yet. I am Miriam, nicknamed Miz by everyone, but it’s not short for Miriam it’s short for Mizmogs on account of me being short on smiles and good humour. I got labelled in primary and it stuck. In high school I was second from bottom in a like-ability poll. It was hurtful: I felt as if I was UK in the Eurovision Song Contest. The only person I beat was Snide Evans and he was the maths teacher.
But back to my story. I’ve been depressed, sort of, most of my life, certainly long before I knew what depression was. But this triple whammy – boyfriend, job, doctor – was a bit too much to bear and I kicked myself leaving the surgery for not telling the Doc about my not sleeping and let him give me some pills, the heavy stuff because oblivion seemed inviting right then and on the way back I was mulling over alternatives… the river (too cold), a bridge (too messy), carbon monoxide (asthma)… and I was driving on automatic pilot. We’ve all caught ourselves making the right moves without thinking about it because your mind is off on its own somewhere doing something else entirely and I’d turned into Johnson Street before I realised where I was and it suddenly registered I had just driven past a jeweller’s shop I’d never seen before.
Odd. I thought I knew every shop in town but I’d never seen this one before. There and then I made my mind up. I quickly pulled over and the car behind basted its horn and made me realise I’m a better driver when I am not fully conscious of what I’m doing. I got out and walked back to the shop. The sight of the jeweller’s suggested a fitbit might be what I needed. Get one of them I figured and I’d have a choice: live or the other thing – and the other thing always seemed involve discomfort of one kind or another.
An old-fashioned bell over the door jangled as I entered and behind the counter was the jeweller. He looked very homely in a Bagpuss sort of way and in his hand he held, amazingly, a fitbit. Some things are meant to be, I thought.
“It’s the last one,” he said, without looking up. “It’s exactly what you need.”
Was he being sarky? I gave him a long look and thought about poking him in the eye, but he just slid the fitbit across the counter encouragingly. “Try it on, you’ll never take it off,” he said.
So I did and immediately the prospect of a new slimmer, healthier, happier Miriam conjured itself up in my mind. The jeweller smiled knowingly. I handed over £60 figuring if I was careful and looked after it I could use it for a couple of weeks then return it, say it wasn’t working properly and get my money back. I walked out of the shop wearing it. His bell jangled. I remember thinking that’s really cheery that, and when I got outside I decided I’d test out the fitbit straight away. I walked straight past my car and went home. I could come back for it later, but if I had slashed my wrists between times then the fact it was on double yellows would be someone’s problem.
Steps taken 1,100 it said when I reached my front door.
Blood pressure 220/135 (high), it went on.
Heartbeat 180pm (high).
Weight: 15st 8lb (high).
That last figure got me. How would it know? I hadn’t told it. Amazing what these gadgets can do nowadays.
Now, I’d heard when you bought a fitbit you tended to do the right things by it, try and please it and improve on the numbers by taking the steps it wants you to take. I didn’t want to feel I was letting it down I walked back for my car and found I’d take the total over 2,000 already.
That night, I ran up and down the stairs a few times and when I’d recovered I drew the curtains and jogged on the spot until I was exhausted and in need of a burger and cuppa, but I forewent the burger. By bedtime the day’s count was 3,205 steps. Hey, that’s not bad, I said to myself and when I woke up I glanced at the fitbit on my wrist and it flashed a Good Morning message as if it has been waiting for me to open my eyes. I might have thought it a very clever had I not been thinking I was sure I took the thing off before getting into bed and put it on the stand next to my bed. Mustn’t have done.
The day seemed keen for me to join it and I was just as eager. The sun was streaming through the window and there was probably some birds singing as well. I showered and went to my favourite room in the house: the kitchen. The idea of a challenge had set itself solidly in my brain so I had sweetener in my tea instead of sugar and toast covered in that plastic spread that says it tastes like butter, but if butter ever found out it would sue. I had numbers to beat. The challenge was everything!
I went for another long walk, well, I hadn’t any work to go to had I? I power-walked when there was no one around to see me. The strange thing about walking in the countryside is that people you pass invariably smile and say hello. I had no idea why, but if you met the same people in the street they wouldn’t give you a second glance and that has always been good enough for me. ‘Good morning,’ they’d chirp happily like a jeweller’s doorbell and I was mystified. I didn’t know them, so why were they speaking to me?
That night I pressed the button for my results:
Steps 5,600
BP 200/105 (high)
Heart 167 (high)
Weight: 15-3 (high) It may be high fitbit, but, wow!
Smiles 0.
Smiles!? What the… I stared at the screen in disbelief. How could.. I mean what… That’s not…
It preyed on my mind the rest of the evening. I heated a couple of meat and potato pies for my meal, but was so preoccupied with the fitbit’s message I could only manage one.
You may think I was being silly and superstitious but I didn’t take the fitbit off my wrist when I climbed into bed for fear that when I woke up it would magically be back on there. I was still bewildered when I lay down to go to sleep that night. Surely…
Good Morning said my fitbit the next day and off we went. It didn’t really say it, there was just a message on the screen. There’s a canal nearby and off along the towpath we went, Fitbit and I. I even took a bottle of water. Good Morning said my fellow walkers, ‘Good morning,’ I said, begrudgingly at first, but really when you get the hang of it, being polite is not that bad. When the next one came along I experimented with a smile and the one after that I actually spoke first. Good morning!
The good mornings turned to good afternoons and I found a pub for lunch and picked up a menu. Call me stupid if you like but as I wondered what I should have chips with I glanced almost nervously at my wrist, as if to seek approval. The word on the screen was: No. No what? Just No, in capitals. NO. So I sat in the fresh air with my soda water and salad and walked home.
That night I checked my readings:
Steps 10,574
BP 190/97
Heart: 150
Weight: 15-5
Smiles: 26
Pleasant Rating: 14.
My God! What else did it know? This was spooky, not right at all, yet it never crossed my mind to take the fitbit back to the jewellery shop. Even so it’s one thing telling me my weight and counting my smiles, but gauging how nice I had been was sinister – and it had been stingy with my score! I fell asleep thinking about it: 14, out of what? I had to assume it was 100 and the next day my walks were full of ‘Good mornings,’ and ‘afternoons’ and I even passed the time of day with people who wanted to talk a little; I waved to folk on the narrowboats chugging past and I didn’t think anglers sitting there hour after hour in their camouflage suits were stupid at all. Of course not.
At the pub a man about my own age, not bad looking in a Chris Hemsworth sort of way and, therefore, way out of my league, asked if he could share my table. I nearly said sod off, go and find your own table, but instead we started chatting. I was quite proud of my new skill. I’d never really chatted to anyone before. No-one’s ever wanted to chat to me. It’s good, isn’t it?
That night by steps had gone over 12,000.
BP: 160/90;
Heart: 121.
Weight: 15-2.
Smiles 45.
Pleasant Rating: 52. Hey, Fitbit was beginning to like me.
I didn’t take it of my wrist again that night and the next day I made my way to same pub and found myself waiting in case Chris Hemsworth turned up again. He did and he smiled and I smiled back and I shoved up on my seat and he sat down next to me and he didn’t mind at all that the outside of our thighs were touching. It was as all as natural as anything. He said something funny and I laughed. Then I said something funny and he made a polite chuckle and I made a note to sharpen up on my sense of humour. His name wasn’t Chris though, it was Danny.
I said, ‘I’m Miz.”
And he said: “Is that because you’re not married yet.’
I thought, steady on girl, don’t fall off your seat.
“Not miss, or even Ms, but Miz, short for misery. I’m actually Miriam, Miriam Obese, I mean O’Brien.”
“I’ll call you Miriam,” he said and smiled. I smiled back. In fact, thinking about improving my fitbit count, I gave him two smiles. He asked me what I did for a living and I told him. We got on well. Two hours and three alcohol and sugar free drinks passed. We got on really well. We both said we’d try and do it again the following day.
This time I ran to the pub. I ran knowing all the time Danny wouldn’t be there because nice things don’t keep happening to a mizmogs. I rejoiced when he was and Fitbit clocked up the smiles.
We sat with our legs touching. My thigh was getting used to it. He said it was interesting that I’d worked in a beautician’s because he was a hairdresser and was opening a new shop and maybe we should get together.
“Gerroffwithyer”, I said.
“A partnership,” he said, and I’m sure my thigh got warmer at that very moment. Something was going on down there at any rate.
While my mind can sometimes go AWOL, it can also get flustered. This was me, Mizmogs, fat and friendless sitting here with Danny Hemsworth and he was saying things that had two meanings. I was still overweight. Was I still clinically obese?”
“I can get down to 11 stone,” I blurted and saw the puzzled look on his face. “Just saying.”
“Have a think, call me.”
“But I haven’t got your number,” I said stupidly
“I’m going to give it you now.”
Ooooh, I thought.
“Where is it, the shop?” I asked.
He said – and get this: “In Johnson Street”
I looked up into his eyes sharply. He sensed my surprise, or unease.
“An empty building, used to be a jewellers years and years ago. Do you know it?”
I shook my head. No, no, no. Well, actually yes. It might have closed down years ago but I went in it last week.
It was a hot day, but I swear I shivered and all the way home, little tremors up and down my spine. I couldn’t Danny’s words out of my mind. I went by way of Johnson Street wanting to see a jewellery shop, but somehow knowing it wouldn’t be there and it it wasn’t. The window was whitewashed and bore a sign: OPENING SOON: LOVE IS IN THE HAIR.
That made me laugh. I glanced at my wrist. Fitbit was still there, but it said nothing. What was I expecting? That it would say: Go for it, call him? I couldn’t help it, I had to check the numbers there and then.
Steps: 10,940 – down a bit but I hadn’t got home yet.
BP: 143/85 (near normal)
Heart: 89 (getting there)
Weight: 15-0
Smiles 67 – I grinned and it clocked up another, 68.
Pleasant Rating 87 – Woo-hoo! Then a new statistic flashed up.
FR: 91.
FR? What the hell was that? I flicked through the menu, tapping its tiny button for all I was worth. It would be there somewhere.
“Come on, come on, come on…”
Yes, there it was: FR – Fanciability Rating.
I let it sink in a moment, that a fitbit was weighing me up as if I was a sex object.
Well, good for it! It’s just men that are not supposed to do that, or at least not tell you about it but I know they do. I think you’ll find high-tech electronic gadgets can do and say as they please. I know I was getting fitter inside and out. I sensed it. People were getting to like me when previously even my boyfriend only liked me because I told him to. Men do not find me attractive: it’s been a rule of my life.
Unless… unless… Nah. Never. No way. Surely? But… maybe… I took my mobile out of my pocket and started to dial.
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