My life is being managed by apps.
I have one to give me morning energy, and one to track and analyze my sleep. There is one that reminds me to take my medications, to say my daily affirmations, to floss, learn Spanish, and talk to my friends.
I have another to actually teach me Spanish.
Three keep me writing. One manages my finances, tells how much I can spend this month, this week, today ($28.21). There are three for Facebook alone. One lets me swipe left or right to apply for available jobs.
There is one to find me movies to watch, two that help me procure food, and two more that in theory could help me work out if I ever felt inclined to do such a thing. I have one to provide me with guided meditations based on my mood.
I’m embarrassed to be so managed.
I am a 26-year-old woman. I should remember to take my crazy pills. I should remember to say my affirmations — they’re on a Post-It on my desk, after all. I should remember to speak with my friends. I should remember to write my articles, to blog daily, and to keep track of my money.
My therapist would prompt me to say “I could” instead of “I should.”
Three apps are too many for Facebook, and I use YouTube yoga videos to work out — then again, I have the YouTube app, too.
I don’t remember things, though. It’s a side-effect of the medications.
More than that, I’m lethargic. I need occasional prodding to continue to remember the things I must do to exist the way I want to exist.
One app has a reminder to eat only until I’m not hungry. I gain points every time I don’t binge on doughnut holes.
If I don’t attend to them, though, the apps become landmines. I step upon one and guilt explodes in all directions.
I’ve never used the Pomodoro app, in spite of its many recommendations by writers. I just can’t commit to four writing sprints in a row.
Too much productivity scares me. Even the thought.
Especially the thought.
Goddamnit, I wanted to write about apps.