Happy 2025!
Cheers to fresh starts and new things in a New Year. In 2025, though, instead of adding to my soul-crushing to-do list, I’ve decided to be controversial and get rid of something this year. Something big.
I broke up with my smartwatch. We are done. And I don’t think we are ever, ever, ever getting back together.
I have always been a watch person. Even in high school, I loved a good watch. I had a Fossil watch with a pretty mother-of-pearl face, a giant black and white watch during the color-blocking trend that covered a good portion of my arm, and a Swiss Army with a red leather strap. I had a few Swatch brand watches in candied pastel colors. Then I moved to big, chunky, waterproof sports watches that displayed time and date and glowed in the dark. I set my morning alarm on those and thought it was very fancy. Then smart watches took over the market, and I took a tentative step into all the things they could offer me beyond telling time.
I have never even owned the fanciest smartwatch. You know the ones. At the birth of the fancy smartwatch craze, several of my family members thought I should get one. They all had them. In fact, they weren’t sure how I was going to survive without tracking all the things it tracked. Somehow I survived. I got by just fine with my ‘moderately intelligent’ model.
I missed out on the initial ‘cool’ factor my friends and family experienced. Calling one another from their wrists. Answering texts and calls from me on their wrists. Competing with each other to burn calories, meet step goals, and close rings. They could order things with a few taps and listen to music through the tiny, tinny speaker. They were living the lives the Jetson’s cartoon had predicted for us. Admittedly, it all looked cool. The problem is, I didn’t like it. Not a bit.
The first thing that happened was my watch was always set to “accept text messages” when I exercised. In case my children needed me. There is nothing like enjoying the peace of a yoga class while receiving a silent yet alarming all caps message-WE ARE OUT OF WAFFLES. I don’t know if this constitutes a crisis in your family, but here it’s a sign of end times. But this is not information I need to know in real-time. This crisis can wait a hot minute. A hot yoga minute.
I also don’t need the metrics because I have zero interest in studying myself. I’m well aware if I have or have not exercised. My jeans let me know. I will always choose the kouign-amann instead of the kale, so no need to log it and have my watch shame me. And the sleep. I’m crystal clear about if I haven’t slept well the night before. If I haven’t, I will let the world know, and I’m not at all nice about it.
Twenty-five years ago my husband and I got matching watches. I have no idea why — like on the old game shows where you could win his and hers with a trip to Toledo. They are beautiful, but all they do is tell time. I had to take mine in to get a new battery. I’m keeping it in a drawer on standby, just in case.
Peace to you and yours in 2025. The year will go by fast. I plan on enjoying the time without checking on it very much. On my newly naked wrist now sit multiple bracelets. They alert me to absolutely nothing. New Year’s bliss.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.