I haven’t worn a watch in years, and lately I’ve been missing one.

Not a smartwatch. Not a watch that tells me how many steps I’ve taken, how well I slept, whether my heart is behaving, or if I’ve been sitting too long.

I miss an old-fashioned watch.

The kind you wind up at night and then happily watch the little second hand go around the face.

Simple. Peaceful. No judgment.

But apparently, those are harder to find than I expected.

So, I decided to embrace technology and get a smartwatch. After all, taking care of your health is important, and I had heard these watches can monitor your heart, track your sleep, and even call 911 if you get hurt.

Wow.

I could hear my dad saying, “Pen, it’s just like Dick Tracy’s watch! Can you believe it?”

(Never heard of Dick Tracy? Google him. He was a comic-strip detective with a futuristic wrist radio long before the rest of us were carrying tiny computers around in our pockets.)

Anyway, I broke down and bought the smartwatch.

I was so excited.

The salesperson told me, “Just charge it, put it next to your phone, and voilà! It will connect automatically.”

Except it didn’t.

Apparently, my iPhone was so old that it could not handle my fancy new watch.

So…time for a new phone.

Ka-ching. Ka-ching.

Finally, the new phone was set up, the watch was connected, and all was well.

Kind of.

At least the watch thought so.

I had absolutely no idea how to use it.

The guy at the store told me, “Just play with it.”

I hate when people say that.

When I “play” with technology, things disappear, settings change, and suddenly I am speaking to something in another language.

So I decided not to touch anything.

Unfortunately, the watch had other plans.

This thing is bossy.

It loves telling me what to do and how poorly I am doing it. It’s like having a disapproving mother strapped to my wrist.

So I decided to give it a name.

Mother.

Stand up.

Move.

Exercise.

Breathe.

Any minute now I expect Mother to tell me to fix my hair and wear nicer shoes.

And yet, somehow, I have become obsessed with earning her approval.

Those little activity rings—Move, Exercise, and Stand—have taken over my life. If one isn’t closed by bedtime, I find myself pacing around the house at 11:00 at night trying to satisfy my watch.

Why am I trying to please an inanimate object?

Recently, Mother had a banner day.

I was in the middle of boxing class when my wrist suddenly started shaking like mad. I looked down and saw:

You took a hard fall. Do you want me to call 911?

An SOS was flashing beside it.

“No, no, no! Don’t call anyone! I’m fine!”

Apparently, punching the heavy bag had jarred me enough for Mother to think I had collapsed.

I finally found the cancel button before she followed through on her threat.

I hate to think what she would do if I ever took a real fall. Probably call the morgue.

Then, when class was over and I got into my car, I heard beautiful Christmas music playing.

Not from the radio.

Not from my phone.

From my watch.

Was Mother apologizing?

It took me nearly half an hour to figure out how to make it stop. By then, I was waiting for another alert:

WARNING: HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE DETECTED.

Thankfully, Mother must have realized she was treading on dangerous ground. Wisely, she kept quiet.

And apparently, Mother worries about my hearing too.

One day she suddenly flashed:

LOUD ENVIRONMENT!

I looked around in alarm.

What loud environment? Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Oh no. Was my hearing already so bad that I couldn’t tell how loud things were?

Nope.

I had just walked out of a public restroom after using one of those industrial-strength hand dryers.

Apparently, Mother considered drying my hands a hazardous activity.

Geez. Who knew?

So, I’m still figuring out how this relationship is going to work.

But one thing has become very clear.

My smartwatch is definitely smarter than I am.

And honestly?

Mother seems pretty proud of that.

-Peni

P.S.  This blog reminded me of my book “Old Long Snout.” Little Nellie didn’t use technology when she was lonely – she used her imagination instead. I feel that’s a lost art, not only with kids, but with adults too. Maybe every now and then, we could all use a little less screen time and a little more daydreaming.