Who better than everyone ’s favorite manic imp hyperbolic memoirist , David Sedaris , to pen about the agony and the ecstasy of Fitbit possession ? No one , consider how well his latestessayin The New Yorker read as a love life note .
Sedaris , who once accused Kindle ofbespelling doom , does n’t seem like the most tech - savvy author . But damned if he does n’t love himself a wearable physical fitness tracker . It ’s refreshing to see a well - interpret and much - loved source champion a technology instead of hand - wringing about its societal deduction . Sedaris makes it unclouded he withdraw his preoccupation with step several steps beyond normal , but his genuine enjoyment of the gadget is obvious .
The impish raconteurdetailedhow he arrive to see his Fitbit as a tiny digital Jillian Michaels :
“ The Fitbit is a digital trainer , perpetually egging us on . During the first few week that I had it , I ’d return to my hotel at the end of the day , and when I discovered that I ’d taken a total of , say , twelve thousand steps , I ’d go out for another three thousand . “ But why ? ” Hugh asked when I recite him about it . “ Why is n’t twelve thousand enough ? ”
“ Because , ” I told him , “ my Fitbit thinks I can do well . ”
Sedaris ’ essay jokes about his sick devotion to the machine , but even as he details his inappropriate regression on step - counting , it ’s remove the buster just really like his Fitbit . When was the last time a writer wrote suchan unembarrassed paeanto engineering ?
“ briefly after I decided on a fount , for reasons I can not determine my Fitbit died . I was scourge when I tapped the tolerant part of it and the piffling Lucy in the sky with diamonds fail to appear . Then I felt a great signified of exemption . It seemed that my life was now my own again . But was it ? Walking twenty - five stat mi , or even running up the step and back , suddenly seemed senseless , since , without the steps being counted and registered , what use were they ? I last five 60 minutes before I set up a replacement , express delivery . It arrived the following afternoon , and my hands shook as I buck get to the box seat . Ten second after , my new headmaster whip firmly around my left wrist , I was out the door , racing , practically running , to make up for baffled clip . ”
Aw . D.S. + F.B. = dead on target , obsessive , in all probability psychologically unhealthy beloved . If Fitbit ever needs an advertorial crusade from a beloved memoirist , there ’s literally a zero percentage luck they ’ll go with Augusten Burroughs . Here ’s hoping Jonathan Franzen will compose a rebutter about the mephistophelian allure of FuelBand . [ The New Yorker ]
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