Fitbit: The Marriage Interloper takes an early bath

Sound Off: I was getting the hump, a rubber strap being stroked and tapped is upsetting

It’s no secret that I don’t like being told what to do. My husband is the opposite, thriving in a regulated environment. Opposites attract to drive each other mad.

He’d hinted at a Fitbit for some time and I dutifully ignored him because I’m of the school of thought that energy should be stored for the pressures of everyday life, not ran down like some over-zealous toddler.

Fitbit Christmas went like this – sister bought for husband; husband bought for brother (who is allergic to even telling himself what to do); mother received gift of one (mother being the most regulated and conscientious person alive). I was gifted a heavy history book, that doubles as a square dumbbell.

Cracker-pulling caused the most fuss. One could pull backwards and forwards in an aggressive motion to set the Fitbit into a clocking-up frenzy, like excitedly milking a cow, for a plastic fish and a purple paper hat.


I was getting the hump. I’m a grown woman and I accept, on occasion, the object of my husband’s desire to be something other than me, but a rubber strap being stroked and tapped is upsetting.

Arm curls

Bedtime was disturbing. Husband sat bolt upright doing arm curls. We’d had a healthy amount of alcohol, so I asked him if he was ok? He was getting to 10,000 steps, so I suggested a vigorous sex session.

Mulling this over we both were concerned if we reached an odd number, like 13,200, that we may have had to round off the deficit with scissor kicks.

Brother headed to Vegas to waste steps flicking dollars at roulette tables. I was hoping he’d gamble it. Sadly, he’s just sent a smug Fitbit text about his six-pack.

After a rough start with syncing software, mother thinks it’s being too soft on her, so set herself a 15,000-step-a-day goal. To be achieved before lunchtime.

Husband noticed his sleep has been light to shocking and his heart rate is fluctuating dangerously if I arrive home while he’s plugged into his electric guitar.

Yesterday, I found it, like an idle turd, and tried it on. After playing some MarioKart, it told me to get up and move.

I moved to the bath, sinking it like a little submarine, air bubbles reaching the surface in a satisfying display of kinetic energy.

Elaine Feeney is a poet from Galway. Her collection Rise is out now

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