My troubles started with my new Fitbit, the wrist monitor that keeps track of steps walked and more. After reading the “Product Information” booklet in English, German, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, a Scandinavian language I couldn’t identify, Japanese, Chinese, Russian, and Portuguese, I knew not to submerge it in water or wear it with a pacemaker, but not how to set it up or sync it with my phone.
I proceeded to the directions on-line, accomplished all of this, and patted myself on the back. On day three my Fitbit was so busy tallying exercise points, sending me congratulatory messages, and pushing me to move my body more my husband decided he had to have one of his own.
Unfortunately, when Fitbit 2 arrived, I’d forgotten whatever I’d done to set up Fitbit 1. Weird messages about water scrolled across the screen and the device wouldn’t sync. After struggling for part of a day, I begged a friend for help, someone out of state who’d never owned a Fitbit himself. Hours later, after he became hoarse from repeating Inspire, I said, No, I bought the Versa model. Or did I?
No wonder I couldn’t repeat my success of a few days earlier. I was trying to install the wrong model. OK. I admit it. It’s hard to blame technology for that problem. Working with the directions for the correct model helped immensely, and soon my husband was grinning over the number of steps he’d accumulated that day.
And having just learned something about my tech expertise, my friend bought a burner phone, which was wise, because on day 4, Fitbit 1 crashed. Although I’d promised I wouldn’t bother him again, I sent out a new SOS, but after a short and failed consultation promised again I would figure out how to correct the problem and not ask for help. Another half day passed, despite desperately wanting to break my promise, I turned off the Fitbit. Two days later I turned it on, followed the on-line directions and voilà. My Fitbit returned to its functioning state, leaving me to believe my technical challenges were over.
However, the following day, our TV started acting strangely. We had turned it on to record a movie, and suddenly were viewing a detailed description of every action of the protagonists accompanied by spoken subtitles. “He held up a newspaper to show her. He threw a punch. She laughed in his face.” The features helpful to the visually impaired had been activated. We’d not touched anything to cause this. Gremlins were responsible.
The next day, we discovered one new television quirk on the Seahawks-Titans football game. The broadcaster kept shouting “Si, Señor,” and many words we couldn’t understand. If we’d been visually impaired Spanish speakers, the situation would have been ideal.
The least the gremlins could have done that day was hide the final score.