When my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year, I was prepared. I really wanted a new set of makeup brushes, partially because I needed them, partially because I saw a photo on Pinterest with makeup brushes displayed in a mason jar that I wanted to replicate so I could get my smug on for a day or two.
My mom told me what she bought for my kids at Target, and since Target has nearly an entire aisle dedicated to makeup brushes; I thought I was good to go. I may or may not have purchased a mason jar in anticipation. So when the time came to open presents, I was not prepared for what actually happened.
She bought me a Fitbit. For those of you who don’t know, the Fitbit is a device that tracks your sleep, monitors how many calories you burn, has a GPS function for running and comes with an online program to record what you eat. It’s basically an accessory made of shame, self-loathing and metal.
I tried to hide my reaction, since I’m not a child and I didn’t want to spoil Christmas for everyone else, but inside I felt like this:
Never mind the fact that she gave my sister a trip to Hawaii for a week and gift cards for a whole new wardrobe, never mind the fact that she got my lover-of-all-things-nerdy husband a magic wand that functions as a remote control (which, according to him, is best gift anyone has ever given him, period, so I can never top it and shouldn’t even attempt to try), or the fact that I emailed her a link to the makeup brushes I wanted when they went on sale for her convenience. Socks would have been a better choice; they would fit no matter what I weigh. She could have at least been passive aggressive about her opinions on my body and got me yoga pants, at least those I would actually wear (you know, because I’m a SAHM who doesn’t do anything but sit around all day)
But no, this Christmas my mother skipped the passive part and went for just straight out aggressive. 24/7 fitness tracking and the capability for her to spy on my stats from her own computer. I’m pretty sure the mob gets more privacy from the FBI. At least the Don and his underlings can still stuff themselves on pasta without it being recorded.
And the Fitbit does not mess around. It doesn’t pretend to be anything but functional; unlike the Nike Fuel Band which resembles a rubber bracelet. But no, this Fitbit is a little metal clip thing, which, my mom told me excitedly “You can hide in your bra so no one sees it!” Great, so now I’ll have this calorie chastity belt jabbing me in the milk makers all day as a constant reminder of your disappointment. Awesome.