My smart watch is smarter than I am.
Sometimes it reminds me to breathe.
It counts each breath for me:
Inhale 2… 3… 4… 5…
Exhale 2… 3… 4… 5…
It has all these functions
that allow me to calculate my well-being.
The pedometer tells me if I’ve moved enough.
And it has GPS
so it also tells me if I’ve walked far enough.
It measures my heart rate
to let me know if I’ve exerted myself enough.
It even graphs the hours and depth of my sleep
to tell me if I’m rested enough.
It talks to the other apps on my phone,
the calorie tracker to tell me when I’ve eaten enough,
the Kindle to tell me if I’ve read enough,
word count to tell me if I’m productive enough,
calendar to tell me if I’m organized enough,
social media to tell me if I’m likable enough.
There’s even a function to log hydration
that tells me if I’ve had enough to drink.
I’m quite good at this one.
I’ve basically forgotten what thirsty feels like.
And of course my smart watch tracks my weight
although I have to rely on my scale
to tell me if I’ve lost enough, if I’ve been disciplined enough,
if I’m winning the fight against my body
or if I’m just not fighting hard enough
My watch needs to be smart, I think.
Smarter than me, so it can tell me what I’m feeling
Because my body has never been enough.
It doesn’t speak loudly enough,
or maybe it’s just using a language I’ve forgotten
after years of not listening.
I define the daily parameters of my existence
and my smart watch tells me if I’m worthy enough.
The numbers have become my identity.
Is it significant that my smart watch has the same name as my twelve year old daughter?
That she has inherited this world of constant measurement?
Will she become nothing more than a collection of data,
rely entirely on
external signals from digital devices
because her own feelings are unreliable, imprecise?
I’m scared for her.
Maybe not scared enough.