Two days ago, a friend gifted me a Fitbit health monitor watch. Consequently, I’ll now be party to more informed statistical data relating to my daily fitness regime. Management information which’ll confirm officially, if re-affirmation was required, that GJ Strachan currently undertakes absolutely sod all on the exercise front.
My above paragraph not decrying this kind gift, which yours truly appreciates as a thoughtful gesture. Moreover from the angle individuals may suggest I don’t need a Fitbit watch and app to confirm I’m a fat get. This information easily and more cheaply available by other means, such as a mirror, trouser belt notches and a set of bathroom scales.
A further indication of weight gain can also be gauged when bearing witness to my lockdown wine bottle empties! A shameful collection rendering my garage with a higher glass content than the Moreno factory in Venice.
One of the watches functions which’ll definitely prove propitious will be the app’s cardio rate monitor. With last year’s heart attack causing a small level of irreversible damage to the muscle, in conjunction with consuming my meds, it’s prudent to keep track of the strain on my ticker.
As I audit the data for today’s cardio performance, it re-assures me to witness my current resting heart rate is the perfectly acceptable 68 beats per minute. Its peak this Tuesday registering as 108, a reading attained while this gardening during a not inconsiderably warm summers day.
During the many fraught times ahead while my footballing amours Leeds United attempt to secure Premiership status for the first time in 16 years, I dread to think what cardio reading will be presented during game time….. On reflection, to avoid health threatening levels of strain, perhaps yours truly requires placing into an induced coma during Saturday afternoons for the next month.
Another Fitbit function which intrigues me is the apps ability to records the watch wearers sleep patterns. This miracle of monitoring affirming not just the longevity of slumber, but also, whilst in the Land of Nod, occasions you reside in the state of REM, light or heavy snooze.
As a fella who’s suffered from interrupted kips for many years, my slumber stats for the nights I’ve owned the Fitbit have been unsurprisingly erratic. This affliction not aided by the bladder weakening consequential of reaching middle-age, becoming excessively hot in bed (despite being alone), and pre-dawn being a particularly creative time for literary ideas.
The latter a juncture where I wake with mind racing with jocular notions and how that lightbulb moment can build upon. I have some real whiz bang epiphanies in the early hours of the morning. Sadly, though, most don’t see the light of day in print as, unless jotting down my epiphany at the time, GJ Strachan ordinarily forgets those ideas as soon as he nods back off.
If I’d have taken a pen and paper to bed, capturing these since forgotten lexicological trinkets, my pieces may’ve been fresher and funnier than a subset of the more laboured yarns which substituted them in narrative…… Who knows? Who cares?…… And, perhaps more importantly, Who Killed Roger Rabbit?!