- Buttigieg, Klobuchar come together to laugh at Bloomberg Wednesday 10:29 PM
- Bernie Sanders calls Bloomberg’s wealth ‘grotesque’ to his face Wednesday 9:53 PM
- Angry Bloomberg asks debate moderators if he’s ‘chicken liver’ Wednesday 9:29 PM
- Elizabeth Warren savages everyone else’s healthcare plan Wednesday 9:07 PM
- K-Pop stans help push ‘Pooping for Kaitlin’ hashtag mocking Kent State gun girl Wednesday 8:54 PM
- Fans speculate after learning Pop Smoke posted address prior to fatal home invasion Wednesday 8:11 PM
- Jar of human tongues found in Florida has people shook Wednesday 6:39 PM
- Video of Blueface teaching Obama lookalike to dance is turning heads Wednesday 5:58 PM
- ‘No one has the range’ for this meme Wednesday 5:21 PM
- Mom confronts man who followed daughter through grocery store in viral video Wednesday 5:05 PM
- Major study linking vaping to heart attacks gets retracted Wednesday 4:36 PM
- George Zimmerman is suing Pete Buttigieg, Elizabeth Warren Wednesday 2:55 PM
- Netflix’s ‘Horse Girl’ accused of ripping off 2017 indie film Wednesday 2:52 PM
- The Genyus Network is a safe social space for stroke survivors Wednesday 2:20 PM
- MAGA hat-wearing dog finishes last in ‘Today Show’ fan vote—still named winner Wednesday 2:03 PM
The Hater: Why should I care how many calories you burned?
We like our willfull ignorance. Why would we want an ugly device telling us otherwise?
I’ve had glasses since I was seven years old. Contacts since 10. And one of the reasons I’ve never gotten laser eye surgery is because of my bedroom alarm clock.
I don’t want to see it.
In addition to my virtual blindness, I also have problems falling asleep and staying that way. The clock sits across the bedroom, well out of squinting range.
It’s also 15 minutes fast.
Because I don’t like to know how things really are, outside my head. I don’t want to hear my own voicemail greeting. I don’t want to see myself in anything but a properly lit mirror. So even with the clock across the room, if I’m tossing and turning, I obviously know it’s getting very late—but I can pretend it’s not.
Denial? Maybe. But there is such a thing as too much information.
This week, I’ve been reading a lot about wearable computing. Google Glass has been delayed till 2014, despite the number of apps being prepared for it. It doesn’t matter, though, because by next year we may all have computers integrated into our bodies. Turn your own person into a hotspot (Personal Area Network, or PAN)! If you paranoids think that cellphones are giving you cancer…
But alright, I’ll admit it. I have a Garmin. I use it when I run. I probably use it too much, because I’m starting to fall into the trap of “If I Didn’t Download It, It Didn’t Happen.”
However, I only download my own run data for my own edification—and most of the time I forget about it once it’s off the device. I don’t share anything on Daily Mile or on Nike+, because what the hell is the point of that? Compete with strangers? I play too much Words With Friends as is.
You mix the Internet with endorphins, and you know what you get? Too much information.
I don’t have a Jawbone Up. I don’t have a Fitbit (in part because the name sounds like “phhbbbt,” e.g., the sound of giving up). Because: Why? Why do I want every breath, step, fart, blink, snooze, etc. measured and categorized? Why would I need to be constantly monitored? I already have one mother.
Do these wearable devices actually keep you honest? Active? Fit?
I call bullshit.
I think these devices just add another layer. A layer of shame. They are the electronic equivalent of a New Year’s resolution gym membership by February 9th.
The reason these things haven’t taken off yet isn’t because they’re ugly. (They kinda are fug, though. They remind me of the Casio calculator watches the junior high school boys who picked their noses and wiped it on their desks had.) Even the devices that try are trying too hard, and they all look like props from Star Trek. (That’s not a compliment.)
No, it’s not the appearance.
Why do you think the nutrition label on a pint of Ben & Jerry’s is split into four servings? Do you know anyone who actually spoons out a pious half-cup and pops the carton back in the freezer? (Yeah, those are the same people who eat half a side salad and whine that they are so full. They don’t count. There are issues there.)
But if the label showed the actual portion size? No one would buy it.
Or maybe they would, and they wouldn’t care. (Like in New York, where calorie counts are posted, people don’t give a shit.)
Because who doesn’t know that a Cinnabon the size of your head isn’t flooded with calories? Or that a pile of bleu cheese, a pillowcase of bacon bits, and a cauldron of ranch dressing do not a salad make? Wondered about wrapping your taco in a waffle? Now, you can!
It doesn’t matter what the calories are or where they’re listed. That shit still gets eaten.
Because we don’t want to know. We like our willful ignorance. Why would we want an ugly device telling us otherwise? We want to pretend we’ve had a good night’s sleep, we want to pretend that sitting on the couch is making us healthier, we want to pretend the peanut butter jar has been emptied out by evaporation in the fridge instead of our depressed, oversized nighttime spoon.
And it’s why I’m tired.
Carin Moonin is a writer living in Portland, Ore. Sometimes she’ll even tweet about things she hates at @carinwrites.
Photo by Ashley Baxter/Flickr
Carin Moonin is a freelance writer and content strategist with more than 15 years of experience. She lives in Portland, Oregon.