Unwatched

On Friday my smartwatch broke. The face must’ve snapped off at some point when I was unrolling the baby yoga mats for our weekly tummy time program at the library, and it took me a minute to register that it had broken. To say that I am attached to this watch is an understatement. I've been wearing it pretty much non-stop for five years. 

It’s the first thing I look at in the morning, to check the time and analyze my sleep. Was my heart rate up or down? Did I fall into the recommended minutes of deep sleep? Did I wake too much to toss and turn? Later, I’d check my steps, noting with satisfaction when I crossed 5000, when I crossed ten, and braggy alert: when I crossed 15. 

For the rest of my work shift, I wandered around feeling the ghost weight of the watch on my wrist. I was already calculating how fast I could buy another and have it sent to me, because really, how else would I know when I completed the requisite standing-for-one-minute-per-hour? And what else was going to give me a digital badge for doing twenty minutes of outdoor exercise?

Home, though, and I had a wild thought: What if I DON’T buy another watch? 

This question came up courtesy of the three books I’ve read recently about the emptiness and dangers of over-consumerism and how we might all be happier with less. (For the record the books are: The Year of Less by Cait Flanders, The Art of Frugal Hedonism by Annie Raser-Rowland, and The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer.) 

On fire with my new awareness, I told my husband we should stop buying so much online and try to purge ten items from our house each week. I made a list of things to purge and promptly did not purge them. 

For example, a bike we never ride that has flat tires. Do we fix it? Stick it out on the curb in its flat-tired state? Haul it to the junkyard? Or, my ancient wedding dress which I had never stored properly, and frankly, who would want it now, with the Lady Diana-inspired poofy sleeves and fiddly beaded bodice? 

I did have one moment of purge-y success. A few days before the watch broke, I noticed a sign at my library that they were collecting gently-used musical instruments for the city schools, and I remembered that I have two violas gathering dust in a closet. When I toted them into the building and set them in the collection box, a wave of nostalgia splashed over me. 

This was the end of an era. The kids playing viola in their school orchestras. The music lessons. The concerts. But the funny thing is that it was the end of the era twelve years ago. For whatever reason I kept hanging on to the violas. I took a picture of the dusty cases and walked away, and immediately felt lighter. 

Wait, my husband says when I tell him about my plan to NOT buy another smartwatch. How will you know how you slept? How will you keep track of your steps? 

I don't know, I say. Do I have to keep track of these things? 

We were out to dinner with friends, and this morning I woke up groggy and tired, and I knew it, without the watch, that the one cocktail and delicious deep-fried barbecued chicken sandwich I ate the night before had really affected my sleep. But, oh well!   

Later, I went for a long walk with the dog, keenly aware of my bare wrist. I ambled along the usual route, but it felt like unmapped territory, a new path unfurling before me, my heartbeats unmeasured, my footsteps, for now, uncounted.