I got an Apple Watch and I already hate myself (A Novel)
Up until a few weeks ago, I had never worried about my blood oxygen level.
I didn’t even know what blood oxygen really meant. Especially as a healthy 25-year-old. Does my blood breathe? Is my oxygen bleeding? Who knows, I barely passed high school biology.
I also never cared about how long I spent standing up during the day. I didn’t get a haptic wrist vibration every time my phone got a notification. Life was simpler. Easier. But now the Apple-verse has taken full control of my life.
A singular cellular phone call is complete chaos for me now.
A phone call while I’m seated near my iMac, wearing my Apple watch, with my iPhone nearby and my iPad next to me is CHAOS. They all ring in harmony like my life depends on answering one of them. I end up ignoring all of them out of fear that it's my doctor on the line waiting to tell me I have a week left to live. I don’t even have a doctor. Do I need to find someone I can refer to as ‘My Doctor’?
My fear of talking on the phone has been exacerbated by the fact that I can now make calls with my wrist. If this is how I feel with an extra bit of tech on my arm, I cannot imagine the day the Microsoft HoloLens’ or Magic Leap’s of the world are beginning to be used by everyday humans.
But I’ll never throw any of it away. I’ll never live without it. It’s too late. Now that I can be absolutely positive that my heart is beating consistently throughout the day, I’ll never go back. I love my Apple Watch. I love my blood oxygen. And I love my new Doctor (who is actually my Apple Watch).