“You Don’t Own Me” Lesley Gore

But you did for more than two years. For those of you who don’t have Apple watches or iPhones, these deceptively little rings that are part and parcel of those two devices are hypnotic, controlling, possessing powers that can overwhelm the owner into digital slavery, making them swear daily obedience to them.

The red ring represents calories spent during a day. The owner selects an arbitrary number (in my case it’s 740), and the ring begins to take its circular turn as I move about, closing at the top when I’ve spent as much time moving or exercising to expend the 740 calories. For an eighty year old man that means a one mile freestyle swim and a host of other physically undemanding actions normally taken during the course of a day. It could mean cutting the grass, vacuuming the carpets, washing the car, or just taking a one mile or so walk around the neighborhood. Apple wants me to close that ring every day, and for the past several weeks I’ve been able to do that, although as the sun began to set, and I found myself at 682 or so, I might have taken a walk that I wouldn’t have taken otherwise, all just to close the ring. I could lower the number a bit, making it that much easier, but I wanted it to be high enough that it wouldn’t close if I just watched the news or read a book. Turning pages doesn’t have much of a caloric effect.

Since many of the watch faces show the rings, a quick glance reveals where the owner stands at any given time. I used to see it whenever I wanted to know what time it was. I needed to know that I was making sufficient headway towards the top of the mountain, that elusive 740. The watch face I’ve chosen now doesn’t show anything other than the time. Isn’t that quaint? A watch that shows the time! Not seeing the ring, not knowing how much progress I’m making, renders the whole concept of shedding 740 calories every day of my life unnecessary and irrelevant. I’m still doing the same things I’ve ever done, only the rings no longer have dominion over me. I’m free.

The other two rings are largely meaningless. The green exercise ring is set to 30 minutes, although it is adjustable. A thirty minute walk takes care of that, although flying to Ethiopia made that hard, too. And the blue ring? The watch reminds me that I need to stand and walk around for one minute at least once an hour. Twelve hours, twelve minutes on my feet, and after completing my one minute stand (going to the bathroom takes more than that), the watch congratulates me, as if I just set a record in the Chicago marathon: “You did it!” I’m so proud when I see that.

So these are the three Apple rings. Completing them over long periods of time bring “badges” and other meaningless “rewards.” My reward, though, has been escaping them. They still count, they still measure, only I don’t see them. I could sneak a peek, but so far I’ve resisted the temptation.

More Numbers

The Apple rings identify only three of the numbers that measure me. My scale gives out another number, and I’m avoiding looking at that, as a combination of a Kirkland ice cream bar, a scotch mallow from a box of See’s candies, and a few Kettle chips combined lad night to give me a number that I don’t need to know. It’s like my portfolio. With the economy as it is, not knowing how much is left in my 401K won’t make me lose sleep, but knowing would. What we don’t know won’t hurt us.

My blood pressure is high. That’s another number that I don’t choose to know, as knowing would only make me sad. Oh yes, I’m taking Lisinopril, a medication to combat high blood pressure, but it doesn’t drop it down to 120/70, a far off dream. My cholesterol isn’t going to win any contest, either. I take a statin, which helps. But do I want to know what the numerical equivalent of a likely stroke is? And do I want to know that I’ve reached it?

I do know my resting heart beat. It’s in the low forties, a number that usually only belongs to athletes, Possibly the only thing I have in common with real athletes. Possibly the swimming helps. I’m good with that.

Seven. That’s the number of hours of sleep I like to get each night. Sometimes that happens. Fifty-six, the number of years that Jadyne and I have been married. Grateful for that, too. Three. The number of kids we have. Six. The number of grandkids, all healthy and well. We’re adding two more with Sunny’s kids, Alex and Serena. Eighty. The number of years I’ve been on terra firma, definitely grateful for all eighty of those.

Some numbers are unknown, such as the number of years the world has to put up with Donald Trump, the number of lies he’ll tell while he’s still in office, and the number of people that will die because of his policies. I don’t know if knowing these numbers would bring joy or depression. Hope and optimism aren’t susceptible to numerical values; they exist in a parallel universe, one that I’m most grateful to inhabit, today, September (the ninth month), Third, Two thousand and twenty-six.