The Gospel of Steps
It starts with a buzz on your wrist. “Time to move,” it says, as if your watch is your personal trainer. I am there too, pacing my living room at 11:58 p.m. to hit my step goal. We call it health, but it’s the most passive-aggressive relationship we’ve ever had.
We’ve replaced wellness with metrics, and the only thing we’re improving is our anxiety. The rules are simple: every step must be counted, every calorie must be tracked, and every “active minute” is a badge of honor. We behave as if the fitness tracker is a benevolent god, even though it’s just a glorified pedometer.
The Performance of Progress
Fitness tracking isn’t about getting healthy; it’s about being seen getting healthy. The fitness guy doesn’t just run; he posts his splits. The influencer doesn’t just do yoga; she shares her heart rate graph. The “authentic” mom doesn’t just take a walk; she screenshots her step count with the caption, “Crushing it!” The problem isn’t the exercise; it’s the theater. We’re all auditioning for a role in a play no one wants to watch.
My favorite genre is performative fitness. Today’s episode: someone brags about closing their rings, as if completing a circle on a screen is a personality. They’ll post a thread about “staying active,” conveniently leaving out the part where they spent the rest of the day on the couch. The progress is real, but the motivation is imaginary. It’s the human equivalent of running in place and calling it travel.
The Narcissism of Numbers
Every metric is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re enough. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $299 smartwatch might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You’re falling behind,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we’re fine as we are. We track to feel complete, but the feeling expires faster than the battery.
The joke is that we’re not improving our health; we’re performing it. The bio changes from “person” to “fitness enthusiast” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a thread about “workout hacks.” We think this is discipline, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Movement converts to guilt at a rate of roughly one missed goal per existential crisis. Side effects include anxiety, insomnia, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking spreadsheet.
The Panic of the Plateau
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums, yet we panic harder when the step count doesn’t update. No progress? Suddenly we’re philosophers considering the void. The tracker dies, and grown adults stare at their wrists like they’re meeting God. We’re not lazy; we’re terrified. Without the metrics, we might have to think about the life we’re tracking.
Fitness trackers are anesthesia. They numb the day’s bruises with infinite little goals. Each buzz is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it health, but it feels like speed dating with our own insecurities, and everyone is lying about their progress.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag the “lazy” for not tracking, then post about “self-care” while obsessing over calories. We condemn diet culture while sharing our “fitness journey.” We mock influencers while secretly envying their metrics. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the treadmill and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have walked in circles to hit a goal. I have pretended to “focus on health” while secretly chasing numbers. I have mistaken metrics for meaning. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the goals slightly worse than achievable, and people will chase the next hit. Serve guilt next to progress so users oscillate between shame and tracking, two emotions that never log off. Hide the finish line behind endless metrics; the treadmill handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you tracked harder, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “simplify your fitness” by complicating it.
We supply the data for free. We even defend the system when critics ask questions. We call it “health” while the house counts our steps like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should walk more instead of resting. Of course I should ask strangers if my progress is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a fitness app. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your step count. The coworker you admire saw your “active minutes” post and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you move. There’s no such thing as private fitness, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the metrics. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re doing it right. We could stop tracking, but then who would notice? We could keep tracking, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the walkers, the runners, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled sweat. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.