Do You Ever Feel Pressured To Achieve, Especially Someone Else's Crazy Ass Goals???
It’s 3:49 am and I am lying in bed, in the dark writing this with a black satin heated eye mask over my right eye feeling a lot like a pirate and wondering if my birthday prezzie from David has covertly hijacked my brain.
I woke up 10 minutes ago because…you know… it’s the middle of the night and menopausally, I needed a wee. I groped my way to the loo and as I was sitting there in the darkness, my new Apple Watch vibrates.
Who’s wanting me at 3:30 am??
This message on my new watch greets me: “GOOD JOB!”
Apple is obviously full American because if it were any part British, it would have said, “Well Bloody Done, YOU!”
Intrigued from my semi-conscious state that a watch is congratulating me on bladder function, I wonder if David hasn’t somehow ordered me a senior series version. I then realize #TheWatch wasn’t done talking to me:
“Good job! Keep moving, you’ve almost reached your movement goal”
Sitting there, groggy and without thinking, I start flailing my arms above my head…as one who follows directions does when their pajama bottoms are around their ankles and leg movement is restricted.
Arm flailing counts as movement, right?
I've now moved into the kitchen to reheat my eye mask because I’m not wearing the thing for sleep, I’m wearing it because I developed a nasty stye in my right eye and such pain is only lessened by warm compresses. (Last night, I watched “Great Designs”, a British version of This Old House, with a mug of hot water pressed to my eye socket) No style or grace here. Give me anything hot right now and it’s getting slapped on my eye.
I digress… I’m now re-heating my wheat bed bag because that’s what one does in England on cold winter nights, and I find myself doing a Raggedy Ann version of Jerusalema around the kitchen…in my one-eyed pirate mask.
When I realize I don’t remember the steps, I begin marching around the kitchen, occasionally throwing in some arm waves and foot taps because I am more Jerusalema than a marching band. The microwave beeps and I head back to bed, still foot-tapping and arm-waving down the hall attempting to impress #TheWatch.
As I crawl into bed wide awake, it hits me that I’m not going to get those 4 coveted green circles for my sleep rating. My first night with #TheWatch, it had the audacity to tell me I got zero hours of quality sleep. Well, no duh. The entire night I spent alert to the fact I was being monitored.
Seriously, who can sleep when being evaluated???
It’s now 425am. I’m pretty sure I’m about to be told I should not be typing on my phone if I want to reach my sleep goal.
Update: 4:57: I just woke up from a dream where I was rescuing a spider. 
It's now Friday. I am enjoying writing as I sip my glorious first cuppa and watch the sun (yes! sun in England! Woot!!) #TheWatch vibrates. I look down. #TheWatch was chastising me:
"You didn't make much progress toward your move goal yesterday"
This morning, I don't start waving my arms overhead or jumping up to start marching around the room.
Not the I don't plan to move. I love to move.
But I don't care what #TheWatch or others tell me I should do.
What does the bloody watch know? It was sitting on my bedside table charging all day yesterday.
I'm not opposed to goals...I actually think they are critical as we women have big stuff to do during our time here on this earth.
I also know deep in my being, our goals need to be OUR goals. We are choosing to do something because it Is aiming us at the life WE most long to live...not what family, friends, nosy neighbors, social media or the asshat jury in our head say we should be, do or want.
So, cheers to us! Getting clear on what are our vs someone else's goals for us...and having the courage to live the life that we would love
