I’ve picked up a terrible new habit at my current job: I’ve started walking.

It happened out of desperation. I don’t really have anything to do on my breaks—I don’t eat with anyone at lunch, and the nature of the workplace does not lend itself to socializing much with my coworkers (not that I haven’t tried). Plus, after the whole Fitbit shackle debacle, Jason and I had finally compromised and gotten me a new, more fashionable shackle. So now I feel obligated to use it.

I quickly realized on my excursions that the podcasts I normally listen to—Liar City, Generation Why, Undisclosed—while informative and entertaining and full of true crime and murder, weren’t exactly inspiring walking music. (The episode on John Lennon’s death made me want to crawl into bed and build a fort out of my blankets. Not exactly “get out and move” listening material.) I needed a playlist: music with an easy walking beat, something I could keep pace to.

This wasn’t nearly as easy as it might sound. I queued up “With or Without You” by U2 and found it was much too slow, and a little depressing. Next up: David Bowie’s “Suffragate City,” which has a piano riff so fast-paced, Olympic walkers (do they have those? They should) couldn’t keep up without barfing. I sat on the curb and waited for Mr. Bowie’s ridiculous attempt to raise my heartbeat to fat-burning levels to pass. He seemed to realize his error, called in his pal Freddie Mercury, and “Under Pressure” came on next. This proved to be a win, and I had my first entry on the “If I’m Forced to Exercise” playlist.

If you know me at all, you know I’m not going to have a playlist without Duran Duran. But I quickly discovered that “Rio” and “Is There Something I Should Know?” were impossible to listen to without singing along and doing what I considered rather impressive hand motions reminiscent of the MTV videos for these very songs. But I’m still trying to get people at work to actually talk to me: I didn’t need to give off a “crazy lady” vibe by be-bopping outside the building, dancing and singing out of tune. I continued on through my Durannie library, finally finding a more serene yet still catchy solution with “Danceophobia.” Score!

This early success was followed by a large string of failures. The entire Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack was a bust. Ditto The Very Best of Neil Diamond. I’d thought the Beastie Boys’ Licensed to Ill album was a no-brainer, but it turned out that “Now, here’s a little story I got to tell, ’bout three bad brothers, you know so well” was surprisingly difficult to step in beat to. (Yes, apparently all of the albums on my phone are a mix of things I listened to as a teenager and things my parents would listen to.)

Slowly, I was able to cull a list of songs with a good beat that I could walk to. Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” was a nice addition. Bowie made a second appearance on the list with “Let’s Dance.” I added two tunes from INXS’s greatest hits—“Need You Tonight” and “What You Need”—and then looked at my progress so far. Everything on my list either came out in 1985 or sounded like it did. Turns out my idea of “good walkin’ tunes” meant “heavy synthesizer.” Apparently,  you can take the girl out of the eighties . . .

The best part? It took me so long to put together my “If I’m Forced to Exercise” playlist that it gave me something to do on my lunch break for three full days instead of exercise. So don’t worry, folks: I suspect this new habit is just a passing phase.

Back in April, my husband went on a health kick. He announced that he was quitting drinking Coca-Cola, would increase his exercise, and intended to lose thirty pounds in ninety days. All he required was my support (and I was all for it: the monthly Coca-Cola bills and subsequent dental bills were outrageous), a reward at the end (he wanted an Apple Watch, and would save up for it in the meantime), and a Fitbit.

Fine. If I don’t have to exercise with you, or prepare special meals, or do anything much to alter my own daily routine, great. That’s the kind of cheerleader I am.

Jason met his goals. He’s lost almost forty pounds (don’t get me started on how much easier it is for men to lose weight; I will only say here: !@#?!!) and ordered his super-expensive watch (which he did save for, though often from my paycheck) last month. He’s still not drinking soda, which really makes all of this worth it: see “dental bills” above.

But when he got his new watch, he held up the trusty Fitbit that had gotten him to this point and said “Want it?”
First off, I don’t feel the need to lose weight. A health issue I dealt with during the months he was exercising took care of my extra pounds. Secondly, his Fitbit was sized for a 6’5” man who originally outweighed me by a hundred pounds when he started. (Also, please note that my mother’s side of the family is known for their exceptionally petite wrists, a trait I’m pleased to have inherited.) This giant, clunky, ill-fitting Fitbit would not be a comfortable accessory.

“Nope. Thanks anyway,” I said.

He pouted. Why wouldn’t I want to track my steps? It could count my calories and monitor my sleep patterns; I could enter challenges with other Fitbit fanatics and win badges that meant nothing in the real world–I certainly wasn’t going to be putting “Star Stair Climber!” on my resume; we could take walks together.

“No, thanks,” I reiterated.

More pouting. More grumbling. Why didn't I want to be healthier? Why didn't I want to waste my precious editing time listening to him talk about his stupid watch? Realizing how cold that last sentence sounded, I put the darn thing on to shut him up.

Except it hasn’t shut him up. “Did you sync up your Fitbit today?” he asks me every night. “How low is your battery?”

I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s way too big–so much so that I’ve gotten it caught on two doorknobs and a passing motorcyclist so far–and I hate the way it feels against my skin. More often than not, I forget to wear it during the day at all. I refuse to wear it at night for fear it will slip off my wrist and get lost under the bed, and trust me, I’d never hear the end of it until I got off my butt to retrieve it. Jason has chastised me several times for letting the battery die on it. When I do remember to sync the darn thing, he asks me why I haven’t synced it yet, because nobody could possibly only walk 832 steps in one day. (I’ve got news for you: I can.) When I do wear it, it spends most of its time buzzing to remind me what an out-of-shape shlub I am. I hate the thing.

This morning, I was looking at the Fitbit, thinking how very much it resembled a shackle, when Wednesday looked up at me plaintively and meowed. I looked at the cat. At the Fitbit. At the cat again.

That night, I’d forgotten once again about my unwanted handcuff when Jason reminded me to sync it with the app. As casually as possible, I scooped up Wednesday, plopped her in my lap, and turned on my phone. “Wow—almost 4000 steps!” Jason said, which was four times higher than any other day I’d logged this week. “You’re starting to get the hang of it!”

I wanted to slap him. Instead, I petted the cat, who gave me a healthy purr in return. The Fitbit registered fifty more steps just from the vibrations.
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Who says dogs are man’s best friend?