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I’m frighteningly fit and empirically so.
My watch and my phone tell me how far I go.
My pulse is recorded on graphical charts
and steps are all tallied when exercise starts.

I can easily see if my naps are too short
and when I’m well-rested, I get a report.
Awards are bestowed, well, vibrations at least,
for climbing upstairs or duration increased.

As to walking and running and other such things,
I’ve recently gotten a number of dings.
There are calorie count at the end of each day.
(Though if they were right, I’d be wasting away.)

I’m told if my battery’s losing its zest
and upgrades are offered from better to best
by messages sent from an all-knowing force
with frequent epistles of clever discourse.

When I think of the times in the years now gone by,
when fitness was gained without gadgets, I sigh,
for heartbeats were measured by much simpler means
with a wristwatch, in T-shirts and old pairs of jeans.