My crappy things aside, the good news is that I have my Fitbit Flex on as we speak! I know, man. They had them on sale at Bed, Boys & Behinds or whatever Faithful Reader Paula's unfortunate coworker calls it, and I had a gift card from there. My old cleaning lady, Alll-eeeeeseee-see-ya, sent it to me last year and I have yet to call her. I know. She sent it last Christmas, dawg, and I know if I call her, it's two hours on the phone and I haven't had two hours in a row since last Christmas.
Pay no attention to the 485858484 hours I've spent on this blog.
THE POINT IS, that thing was just sitting there, disgruntled and unused like my vagina. So I whipped it out--the card, not my vagina, and got me a Fitbit.
Do you ever just wish I used an economy of words?
So at lunch yesterday I came home and saw it'd arrived, so I charged it, then after work I obsessively set it up and read the instructions and got all excited to go to bed, so it'd record my sleep. In case you were worried sick, I slept well last night, and as soon as the alarm went off, I screeched up and ran to the computer.
No sleep recorded, it told me.
Goddammit. I KNOW I SLEPT.
Turns out, you have to tell it you're going to sleep. Fitbit tips, from Joooon. I had a minor fitbit when I figured that out.
So now I have to wait all the way till tonight to log m'sleep, and I am just about sure.
In other news, it's Elvis's birthday. Elvis was the first concert I saw. I know! What was yours? That's always an excellent question. The point is--and again, economy of words--they're showing Viva Las Vegas at the old movie theater tonight, starring Elvis and that cheap Ann-Margrt. I took all the letters out her name. She's gonna take one out, I'll take more. I'll show her.
You know, it's hard enough getting old and hideous when you went your whole life being a 7. Shut up. But imagine being an Ann-Mrgrt and getting old. How the hell did she do that without trying to kill herself by drinking her Victoria's Secret perfume?
Ooo, that's another good question. In your prime, whether that's now (pfft) or 30 years ago, what were you? A 9? A 5? I once found an old boyfriend's list of his former girlfriends and me, and I rated a 7.5. He was young. He was still a dick, but he was, like, 17. So. Anyway I can't complain about a 7.5. The first person to drone on about the objectification of women gets hit with a bottle of Victoria's Secret perfume.
Okay, I gotta go. Hang on...So far today I've taken 619 steps. Wow! I've burned 513 calories. Look at me go!
June's blog. Getting decidedly boringer since she got a Fitbit Flex.