I’m devastated. My burgundy Bean is gone! Last night, when I got home from the Library Board meeting, I shucked my heavy winter coat, scarf and gloves then raced upstairs to tell Hub that I’d received a message that the Kia Sorento in Central Region (Winnipeg to Montreal) was mine. He was watching TV in bed so I whipped off my clothes while chatting and trying to figure out what I was going to wear the next day.
I automatically felt my left bra strap in preparation for unclipping my FitBit to slip it into the armband so that it could monitor my sleep patterns. It wasn’t there. Did I take it off without realizing? I checked the bathroom counter. Not there. I poked through the sleeves of my sweater and my blouse. Nothing. Bean, where are you? I tucked myself back into my dressing gown, grabbed a high intensity flashlight and retraced my steps into the garage. Under the car? No. Under the driver’s seat or on the floor mat? Nooooo. I checked the FitBit dashboard. It showed a sync at 9:42. What? Does that mean I dropped it somewhere or that it was stuck inside a piece of clothing? Checked again. Empty. Then I realized that the syncing was set to automatic. Wherever Bean was, the data from earlier was being uploaded. But how, if I wasn’t near a Bluetooth source? Can’t figure that one out yet.
It took me almost an hour to fall asleep because I was fretting so much. Did it fall into the chair by the closet when I yanked my arm out of my sweater sleeve? Maybe. Sure. Of course. In the morning, I whipped off the decorative cover and dumped everything out on the guestroom bed. Some dried leaves from a long-forgotten bouquet, an exercise ball, some orphaned socks. No Bean. odd that in two weeks, I’d become dependent on the little gizmo.
Damn it, what am I going to do? Maybe the clip was defective. Did it crack in the bitter cold, even under layers of clothing? I have no idea. I was so used to it, but I’d stopped tapping my shoulder to reassure myself that it was still in place. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten complacent. All I know is that today, instead of taking the stairs, I took the elevator. Twice. Had wine with dinner (chicken piccata and pasta with tomato sauce). I’m having a popcorn snack with butter and garlic. No excuse, really, for falling off the wagon. Yeah, I’m an emotional eater. Eat when I’m hungry; eat when I’m pissed off; eat when I’m sad. But I think I’ve done okay this week. Tomorrow is weigh-day. We’ll see.