Fitbit Frenzy

My Fitbit is attached to the ribbon around the elephant's neck. 

I am a victim of Fitbit Frenzy.

A Fitbit is small electronic device that wearers attach to clothing or put in a pocket. It counts the number of steps you take during the day. It also counts calories burned, stairs walked, number of miles walked per day. It will even track your sleeping habits and keep track of your food intake and weight.  The data are then loaded into a leaderboard so you can see how you compare to other people on your leaderboard.

For years, I was amused by my sisters email in which they discussed their statistics, needled each other about said statistics, lamented lost Fitbits and celebrated replacements. I was immune. At one time, I was the lone holdout among the five of us. No Fitbit for me. 

Then my four sisters celebrated my retirement by giving me—you guessed it—my own Fitbit. My youngest sister set it up for me and set my step goal at 10,000 per day. I was determined not to let the Fitbit control my life. And I wasn't going to compare myself to or compete with my sisters. I would do what I did every day and record the results. And if I forgot to put the Fitbit on my clothes, no big deal. 

Right. 

I had owned the Fitbit about two weeks, maybe not even that long, when I went swimming with it. In order not to miss counting a single step (a Fitbit Fanatic trait), I had attached it to my swimsuit so it could count the stairs and the steps down to the pool. I had a great swim, climbed out of the pool and began to dry off. My hand touched the Fitbit, still attached to the top of my swimsuit. Oh. My. Gosh. 

I yanked it off my suit and held it out to my husband. I was about ready to cry. Fitbits are not waterproof, as evidenced by the number of sisters who had accidentally put theirs through the washer and dryer and ran to their computers immediately to order a replacement from Amazon. 

My sweet husband took the Fitbit to his computer and read the instructions. "Fitbits are not waterproof," he announced. Then he took it to his hobby desk and tried to take it apart. No luck. "Put it in rice for 24 hours," he said. It was my only hope. 

I held it tightly in my hand as I headed to the kitchen, took a container of rice down from the cupboard and buried my Fitbit in the rice. My sisters were sympathetic, although a couple of them did tell me I held the family record for rapid destruction of a Fitbit. And for 24 hours, I couldn't log any steps. 

Twenty-six hours after putting it in rice, I retrieved it. I held my breath and turned it on. It worked. I decided to see if it would charge. It did. A miracle. My Fitbit lives! 

It's attached to me during all waking hours. My daily exercise has always been walking with our two Beagles, Cooper and Belle. But after the Fitbit, I began walking three miles every morning instead of two. And I no longer try to save steps. Need to make two trips downstairs? Not a problem. More steps; more stairs. Can't find something? I am no longer frustrated by wasted time and effort searching. The more I walk around looking for the missing or misplaced object, the more steps I record. Need to walk to the end of the driveway and back in 108 degree heat? I volunteer! Need to drag long and heavy water hoses to many gardens to do hand watering?  I'm your woman! Need to wander around shopping malls for hours, trying to find just the right pair of slacks? No complaints from me.

Am I close to my sisters records? Only if one of them is without her Fitbit for a few days. Otherwise, not a chance. One sister plays many games of tennis every week. Another sister jogs daily and runs 5Ks regularly. Another sister has a dog who loves to walk. Sometimes I suspect they walk all day. A niece who was comfortably at the bottom of the leaderboard for weeks is suddenly at the top.

We're leaving on a two-week vacation to another continent soon. I've read all about the places we'll be staying and haven't found much about wireless technology or even internet, which Fitbit needs to download data. And I certainly don't want to lose my Fitbit. So I've reluctantly decided I'll have to leave it at home.

I'll miss checking Fitbit frequently to see if I've walked the 10,000 steps before noon—my personal goal. I'm going to hate not getting to log the steps I'm sure I'll walk on vacation. And so much for the non-competitive vow. I know the worst part is going to be coming home to the hundreds of thousands of steps on the leaderboard and my name at the bottom with no steps logged for two weeks.

Maybe I'll learn to use the estimating function of Fitbit. . .

Presbyterian Daylilies

Daylilies are forever. They bloom in the hottest part of the Oklahoma summer, bright orange blossoms that last for one day. But because each stem can have more than one flower, they seem to bloom for weeks, never defeated by intense heat or drought, and always back the next year. Good luck trying to clear a flowerbed of daylilies. You may be absolutely positive that you've dug up every single tuber, but when spring comes, so will daylilies.

Daylilies are part of my heritage, a part I failed to appreciate during most of my growing-up years in Kansas. Daylilies were ubiquitous in the ditches along the roads of my childhood. I saw them from the backseat of the family car as we went to 4-H meetings, church, to town to see my grandparents. They grew near abandoned farmhouses or places where the house had disappeared or where people during the 1930s had planted them as erosion control. One of the local names for the daylily is "ditchlily."

My most vivid memory of daylilies are those that grew--and still do--beside the First Presbyterian Church in Oskaloosa, Kansas. They grew along the fence between the church and the house next door and along the edge of what used to be the manse garage. They crowded the fence and truly did seem to bloom all summer because there were so many of them.

After college graduation, David and I moved to Tulsa and my Kansas trips became infrequent. But as my parents aged, I began to visit more often.  When I went to church with them, which was every Sunday I was there, I'd have time to visit before and after church, to listen to stories and to appreciate my heritage, including those daylilies.

One Sunday, I mentioned the flowers to Betty, an accomplished gardener who volunteered her talents to the church. She sighed and said she really needed to divide the massive fence row of daylilies and asked if I'd like to have some. Yes, I would. We had recently moved to a new house and I was looking for easy-to-grow flowers.

On one of my subsequent trips, I gathered an armload of daylilies and put them in the trunk of my car. Mom was pleased. Those daylilies, she said, were Mrs. Swoyer's pride and joy because of their double blooms. I hadn't noticed. I have a vague childhood memory of Mrs. Swoyer, who I think was about my grandmother's age.

Those daylilies have been in my garden now for fourteen years, never failing to emerge each spring from the ground, blooming in the deadliest heat and driest years. Their companion plant is blue salvia, another beautiful survivor. Like Betty, I've divided them and given them to friends, even to the local nursery.

Unlike daylilies, people and institutions, even churches, aren't forever. The daylillies in my garden represent my heritage: not only the church, but also the people who loved me, encouraged me and cheered me on as I went away to college, married, moved away and achieved my goal of becoming a teacher. Most of these people are now gone, but the flowers remind me of their strength and inner beauty, surviving the Depression, WWII, innumerable griefs and setbacks, never giving up, always returning, drawing strength from their community and celebrating the ordinary beauty of everyday life.

The Oskaloosa Presbyterian Church building is still on the corner where it has stood for more than 100 years. The congregation, however, is dwindling, down to a few who faithfully attend service every Sunday. Someday the congregation will be gone and the building sold.

But those daylilies will be still there, growing, spreading, crowding the fence, always returning, symbols of the unyielding determination, eternal hope and faith in the future the Presbyterians bequeathed to me and to others of my generation.