Smart daughter, Stupid Watch

The watch on my wrist vibrated. "You seem stressed," it informed me. "Why don't you take a breather?"

Of course, I hadn't felt stressed.

Sure, I'd been pretty busy: I'd gone for a run, cleaned the kitchen, argued with the cat, fed our family's entire winter wardrobe to the laundry machines, and stretched my shoulders to prepare for the moment when the dog would double dare me hold on to the loop end of her leash during her late afternoon squirrel hunt.

I wasn't stressed …

At least I wasn't until it told me I was.

I tapped the glass face to demand further explanation:

Pulse? Normal.

Respirations? Normal.

SpO2? Normal.

It all seems normal. Why does it think I'm stressed?

“Hey, dummy. Did you look at the STRESS widget next to the VO2 reading I keep trying to explain to you?”

I hate this watch.

A bright orange number appears. Like VO2 this number means nothing to me. 

But the watch won't give up. A line graph scrolls past with a spectrum of orange-hued spikes stabbing into all hours of the day. "You have not had enough restful moments throughout the day to balance your stress levels. Why don't you try a meditation break?"

Three wavy lines appeared and instructed me to tap them. More magic:

Breathe in ...

Hold your breath ...

Breathe out ...

Hold your breath.

Each prompt was accompanied by a long vibration and the understanding that for the next fifteen minutes I would have to focus if I wanted any peace from my timepiece.

"Close your eyes."

In

Hold

Out

Hold

In ... Hold ... Out ... Hold ... In ... Out, Hold, In, Out Hold, Out, In, Fidget, Twist, Shout.

The watch shouted back: "Your meaningless orange number went even higher! How did you manage to relax into more stress?"

I wanted to throttle this watch. I wanted to remind it of the time it tried to alert the authorities that I had fallen and might be bleeding out on the side of the road … when no such accident had occurred.

I hadn't tripped. Hadn't shifted weight. Hadn't moved. I hadn't even thrown the maniacal timepiece across the room out of sheer frustration. 

Can you imagine? Me standing there yelling 'YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING,' into my wrist?

But I didn't. Truth is the watch … and all its proprietary technology … makes me believe we're all just one update away from wearing our primary care providers on our sleeves. And if people ever saw me talking to my watch there'd be no chance they would assume I was secret service.

“Want to go to the mall?"

I know what you're thinking. … But I hadn't lost my grip on reality, my daughter had.

She had seen me practice hyperventilating and decided what I really needed was a little retail therapy.

I think about the traffic. The parking lot. The strange vibrations you feel when you finally stand still on the second floor of the wide-open space.

How can I say no? 

“Who's car are we gonna take?”

“Let's take yours, then you can relax.”

My smart daughter is so much better at helping me relax than my stupid watch.