One of the most complicated relationships in my current adult (are we calling it that officially?) life is with Britney, my circa 2015 FitBit Charge HR.  Britney is the kind of bitch who, within exactly 37 seconds of meeting her, will make sure to let you know that her name is spelled B-R-I-T-N-E-Y, like the singer, not with an extra T like some old person would spell it, and DEFINITELY not like some boring island in England (don’t bother telling her it’s not an island and not in England, she’ll look at you like you’re the idiot).  Within 38 seconds of meeting Britney, she’ll demand that you call her “Brit”.  Within 39 seconds of meeting Britney, you’ll suspect that her parents named her Britney because that’s what VH1 was playing on the analogue TV that’s mounted on top of the underwear dresser in the Apache camper at the exact moments where her parents conceived her, but you’ll ultimately decide you’re not comfortable admitting that “Hit Me Baby (One More Time)” came out almost 20 years ago.

Britney was not my first Fitbit, and in fact I had serious reservations about getting her, particularly since I felt some serious guilt about how I was trading trusty Harold, the sad little Fitbit Zip I had gotten for free through my job’s Spring Walking Challenge (we’re a bunch of lawyers, so lolz all around on that.  There are only so many steps one can rack up walking to and from the printer on a daily basis.).  Poor Harold and I never really connected.  For one, I accidentally threw him in the laundry more times than I care to admit. I also forgot to charge him for weeks on end, completely forgetting about his needs until the one random day where I would accidentally do a slight modicum of physical activity and look to him to give me the validation of reflecting a highly inaccurate number of steps on a tiny screen and, of course, he could not. “DAMMIT HAROLD!”, I would scream in frustration, like it wasn’t completely my fault.  However, the sad boyfriend with bad self-esteem that he was, Harold just took the abuse, always ready with a beaming, almost stupid, smile.  And rather than looking inward at my own behavior and how I was failing our relationship, I told myself Harold was the real problem.

So anyway, if there’s one thing I know how to do in this life, it’s how to overcompensate for my inadequacies, which is how Britney came along.   When I met Britney in the electronics department of the Target Department Store in glamorous Burbank, California (“Media Capital of the World!”) all those years ago, she was sexy and shiny and new.  In case I needed to be reminded of the fact that I was batting out of my league with her (not literally – bat swings are not recorded as anything on a Fitbit Charge HR), I even had to ask the sixteen year old “Technology Specialist” to unlock the case that she was in so I could hold her.  The fact that she was more than slightly too good for me totally didn’t phase me because I am well-versed in the art of winning over people who are many rungs above you on the social ladder.  What’s that, Britney?  You suggest a step goal of 10,000?  How about we go for 20,000!  You think I should be moving once an hour every hour?  Yeah, of course, I bet I probably already do that anyway, teehee.  You think I should connect with all of my friends so we can do “challenges”?  Yeah, that sounds like a lovely idea!  Oh, by friends you meant the random far-fitter-than-me people who I’ve come across since college and have an acquaintance-at-best relationship with?  Yeah, bring it, I’ll cream those bitches (hm but maybe not that specific one, that one does triathlons for fun).

Britney and I were off to a swimming start on those first few days (….yes, days), except not literally because no way was I getting that pricey bitch wet.  Like that time I got paired with popular girl Kim Burns in high school for our chemistry project, she was starting to resign herself to the fact that she was stuck with me was a bit overdramatic and she was coming at it with a great attitude.  With every playful vibration and every “Nailed it! Reached your daily step count!” and “In it to win it!”, I could see her enthusiasm bubble. She routinely screamed out “Overachiever!”, which I never knew whether to take seriously or if she was just sassing me and I was too sweet and innocent to know the different (because, like, if your goal is 10,000 steps, and you get like 10,100 steps, are you really overachieving or is that just  a healthy margin of error?).  Either way, I was also starting to feel it and thinking that, yeah, maybe I was pretty good at this whole fitness thing after all!

As was inevitable, reality eventually hit and I realized that my life as a corporate attorney and the associated early morning calls, all-nighters and requirement that I be constantly available was not amenable to a daily odyssey in the mountains of Los Angeles that would yield the step and floor count that would satisfy Britney.  At first, Britney was encouraging, making sure to gently tell me I was 0/5 days into my weekly exercise goal.  One time she even unexpectedly gave me the so-called “Serengeti badge”, which had to have been a mistake since no way in hell does walking to and from the cafeteria at work equal the wildebeest migration.  Then, and I know this sounds crazy, but the bitch turned mean.  I mean, how do you look a person in the face and tell them they are “Almost there!” because they only have “8,768” steps left to hit their daily step goal.  Bitch, that’s like multiple miles of walking and it’s 10 pm and I’m still at work.  Unless my car breaks down on the 101, my phone explodes and I have to walk home, I’m not hitting that (and honestly, even then I would likely hitchhike).

After a while, I just couldn’t take the disappointment and the judgment.  Eventually, I did what everyone stuck in a toxic relationship wishes they could do – I suffocated Britney in her sleep (i.e. I stopped charging her).  She lay idle and depressed in my bedside drawer next to my weed vaporizer and my vibrator for a good year or so, and I do like to think she became increasingly bitter about how seldom she was being used, especially in comparison to her cellmates.  I would say I felt bad for her but I would almost certainly be lying.

A few months ago, I took Britney out of the drawer and gave her a good look.  Truth be told, I was giving her the same look I gave Harold before I decided to chuck him, but something about looking at her made me feel really…bad.  She came with so much hope and so much enthusiasm, and here she was all old, dated and banged up (but also barely used, how was that even possible).  I wanted to trade her in for some sexier model but something possessed me to just plug her in and give her a charge.

On her end, Britney had entered her “high school cheerleader hits her early 20s phase”.  She had definitely put on a few and, rather than being the bubbly social butterfly, she now worked in the women’s department at Walmart during the day and worked nights at the local liquor store to make ends meet.  Because of that, I had no problems telling Britney that, no, she could fuck herself with her 10,000 a day suggested step count, because my ass usually walked like 2,190 steps on a good day so we were going to start with 2,500.  She pretended to give me a happy “Nailed it!” when I hit that measly goal but, honestly, we all know what was not being said.  On days where I didn’t hit that goal (don’t judge me, I’m very busy!), I could barely stand the judgment in her “Only 560 more steps to go!”, which loosely translated to “Bitch, you can’t even hit 2500 steps???  Pack it in, let’s go home.”

Nevertheless, like the goddess Elizabeth Warren, I persisted.  Maybe I didn’t hit 2500 steps every single day, but I didn’t let Britney’s ‘tude get me down about the fact that I hit it sometimes, and if I was capable of hitting it more often than not (sidetrack, but “more often than not” is legitimately my favorite phrase in the English language), I was likely capable of hitting 3,000 steps more often than not, and then 3500, and so on.  Through a combination of letting go of Britney’s judgment and (vomit emoji) being kind of myself, I very slowly increased that step count to an average 10,000 a day (sidetrack, but “average” is legitimately my favorite concept in the mathematical language).

These days, I would describe my relationship with Britney as sitcom-level dysfunctional, in that when she plays the nagging wife and I make a veiled sexist joke about her to the third wall, and we all move on.  It’s certainly problematic, but everyone has a laugh at it and ultimately it’s not the battered-woman-syndrome-level back and forth that it was previously (I’ll let you decide who was the battered woman in this scenario).  By and large I love her and do what she says and, at the end of each 22 minute episode, she gives a kiss to her chubby, not-quite-at-her-level partner and we end things on a happy note.  We’ve worked out a decent equilibrium and while she inspires me to be the best (I will admit to walking around in circles in my apartment at 11:30 fairly frequently just to get those extra 300 steps in to make her happy), I don’t let her get to me when she gets all ugly about it.

A few days ago, during Black Friday, I thought about trading Britney in for something a little bit more substantial.  She’s getting old, and I told myself I’m now more active and want something with a fancy GPS upgrade so that I can tell everyone on social media how many miles I hiked, biked or rode.  As crazy as it sounds, I could not pull the trigger.  I am attached to this now frumpy, ugly-looking thing, even if she does smell and often give me a rash.  I made a commitment to myself that I would keep her and continue to try to impress her until her time is inevitably up, at which point I would respectfully replace her with something that can fill her shoes.   This stupid little thing has taught me a lot about being patient with myself and starting where I am. Even though she can still be a bit of a cunt about it sometimes.