I have been given a fitbit as an early get buff by your birthday present, and I have been trotting everywhere for the past two days, spurred by blinking dots. It even tracks your sleep – and that is where I laugh like a sad person, looking at the long chart of red lines that mark wakefulness. “5 hours 3 min sleep” it says optimistically, but no, there was not any sleep between those lines. The instant I got a device to track my rest, two of the kids developed night fevers and asthma attacks, and I only stopped administering medicine and cold cloths and inhalers at 4am, crashing for a restful 45 minutes of sleep before leaping up for the work day.
On the plus side, I logged 300 steps before 5am, so I am winning. The darling thing doesn’t even care if the next 9,700 steps are hollow-eyed foot-dragging staggers, because it is forgiving like that, and I am 32 oz of coffee closer to my daily fluid quota. Suspecting this is a relationship I will be good at.
The 2-hour commute makes movement necessary. The driver’s seat is shaped like my backside and I get tetchy when people adjust the lumbar angle. My phone is filled with dashboard cloud formations.
There are other, wonderful sights, as well. The other day a motorcycle roared around me, and astride it rode the best-looking driver I have ever seen; he had on a big black backpack, and across it in large white letters was the word LUNCH. I chased him for half a mile, but he escaped.
Working on maneuverability.
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