Fitbit Fitbit, booooo hissbit

Below the earlier entry about my Fitbit, Ravi posts a comment in which he makes a comparison between the Fitbit creators and stinkpot poopyhead Jabba the Hut. You may wonder why the out-of-the-blue hostility toward the Fitbit company, particularly from such a sweetpot like Ravi, whom, if you have the pleasure of knowing him, you know to be deeply gentle and loyal. Perhaps, as you see in his comment, Ravi's loyalty trumps his gentleness, ever so slightly. That's okay with me.

What Ravi knows is this: several months ago, I typed up a very carefully crafted, extensive proposal to the folks at Fitbit. I raved, artfully, about their product and its impact on my own health and well-being. I made a compelling argument for its potential value to schools, and suggested they work with me to get independent schools to buy in to discounted purchases of their faboo product. There are so many possibilities for this, and I wrote with equal parts enthusiasm and specificity about what could happen: math students calculating and tracking numbers of steps within their school (how long might it take their school to walk to the moon? at what pace? what about their walkers with bigger strides?), departments competing, grades competing, faculty versus students competing, schools competing. Deerfield v. Choate? Hotchkiss v. Taft? Are there more passionate independent school rivalries in our midst? I think not. And think of the press releases for the schools and their visionary wellness programs! While they're at it, the most important thing would be happening: they would be building greater health within their community.

I tried to establish my credibility with them: how I know independent schools and their students, and even have a school lined up (Laura's) where I could get things started. I explained exactly how all this could be done -- step by step, so to speak. I proved that I was a devoted customer of Fitbit, and gave them my step count up to the time of my writing to them. It was a good number -- almost as many steps as one of them had (you can see these things on the site). He might have reached Utah before me, but not by much. Actually, he's in San Francisco, but you know what I mean.

I sent my envelope, addressed to the two handsome young men who head up Fitbit. I sent it Special Delivery, Certified, sign-here-saying-you've-embraced-the-mail-carrier to prove you've received the letter. They received it. They signed. I kind of hope they embraced the mail carrier. They tossed my proposal in the trash and, quite unlike the kind soul, the kind cartoon editor at the New Yorker so many years ago, never responded to me.

Laura is angry at them.
"I'm going to write to them and tell them they stink!" she says.
"Nah, La. It's okay. They have bigger fish to fry."
"I'll fry fish on their faces," she says, employing our customary retort of last resort, used to punctuate a conversation with something you really can't argue with.
"Maybe they don't think a 57-year-old, breastless, graying, shrinking woman is who they want representing their fitness product," I suggest, stung but trying to accept this very real possibility.
"I don't care. It stinks not to respond to you at all. I'm going to write to them and tell them they blew it."

She hasn't, and I don't think there'd be much point, but I appreciate the spirit of support. Truth is, I'm getting good at failure. It's one of my greatest successes: to launch these lead balloons over and over again and still think the next one might sail into the air. Or, even better: sail into their faces!