The Fitbit is the Antichrist

fitbit3Not long ago, neuroses belonged to the Jews. It was a point of pride, a definition. This pride found its ultimate expression in Woody Allen, whose entire career was based on mumbling his sweaty-palmed way through a litany of overblown reactions to insignificant events. He turned carrying the guilty weight of everything from masturbation to the Holocaust into Oscar-winning neuroses-porn. But alas, much like the bagel, which is now unrecognizable ~ Blueberry? Asiago? Caramel crunch? Caramel fucking crunch??? ~ neuroses can no longer claim Jewish ownership. Oh, no. Neuroses have been unleashed on the general public, having found its ground zero at the intersection of technology and advertising.

Enter the Fitbit, the antichrist of devices. Its sole purpose is to tell us that we’re not walking enough. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got plenty to worry about without having to check my wrist every fifteen seconds to make sure I’m going to hit 5,000 steps for the day. Uh-oh. Only 4,243. I’ll walk around my desk again. Another lap through the lobby! And really, what difference does it make? If I need to drop a few, I don’t need Inspector Gadget to tell me so. I just need to try on an old pair of jeans. If I sense that I’m harming them in some way, if I’m afraid I’m Lou Ferrigno-ing the thighs, if I find that the top button is branded into my belly, then it’s time to reconsider calling that mountain of loaded nachos breakfast. Easy peasy. No need for a Fitbit.

This piece of technolojewelry touts its ability to bring us valuable information in real time, but really it’s just one more thing that chips away at our sanity and perpetuates a culture of neuroses. One more thing to tell us that we’re doing life wrong. From the moment we get up in the morning until the moment we go to bed at night, we’re bombarded with messages of wrongdoing. Our bodies. Our weight. Our diet. Our parenting. Our clothing. Our house. Our appliances. Our car. Our financial situation. Our marriage. Even our faces. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Our everything is wrong.

And for the LGBT community, the messages of wrongdoing aren’t limited simply to what we’re doing, they extend to our very being. Our orientation is wrong. Our identity is wrong. Our love is wrong. Our sex is wrong. Our families are wrong. Sometimes we hear that from members of our own community. Thank you, D&G! Our effeminacy is wrong. Our butchness is wrong. Our need for baked goods, flowers, and pizza is wrong. Our weddings are wrong. To listen to the news lately, one might conclude that for the trans community, taking a leak in a public restroom is wrong. Even Russian Siri tells gay people that they’re wrong, because it’s not enough to hear it from other humans, now our Russian LGBT brothers and sisters have to hear it from their phones too. The simple fact of our existence, we’re told repeatedly, day in and day out, is wrong. Frankly, it’s a fucking miracle that we’re not all curled up in the fetal position. Sometimes I wonder if straight people could handle being LGBT for even one day. In the same way I don’t think any man could survive childbirth, I feel safe in asserting that no straight person could survive for a day as a member of the LGBT community. Just one day to deal with the never ending barrage of bullshit that still passes for acceptable treatment and thought.

So, in the interest of not letting a day go by without someone quoting Gandhi, I’m going to be the change I wish to see in the world. I’m going to leave you all– all the gays, bis, homos, queens, queers, genderqueers, lesbians, dykes, faggots, polys, transmen, transwomen, whoever you happen to be and wherever you happen to fall on the sexual orientation/gender identity/gender expression continuum–with this fabulous thought:

Stop worrying that you’re doing everything wrong. You are. Yes, your kids are going to be fucked up. Not because you’re LGBT, because you’re a parent. Everyone is doing it wrong. Don’t worry about your weight. You weigh too much. You’ll fix it if and when you’re ready. Your financial situation? Don’t waste one more second worrying about it. It sucks. But this is likely as good as it’s going to get. To paraphrase Donna Summer: You already know you’ve seen the bad times ~ already know these are the good times. Indeed, these are the good times. So put down the Fitbit and pick up a God damned doughnut. Put down the worry and start enjoying all that life has to offer. The neuroses you’re carrying around are just wasted energy that has never helped anyone. Well, anyone other than Woody Allen.


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