Mr. Inquisitive

“This whole wearable/fitness tracker craze reminds me of junior high school when, back in the day, the boy would give his chosen girl an ID bracelet with his name or initials engraved upon it. Thus, you belonged to that particular fellow, which would basically mean you might slow dance together to The Righteous Brothers’ ‘You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling’ or the Beatles’ ‘Yesterday’ at the noon hour dance. And when you broke up with said boy (if you were lucky or wise enough to ditch him first) you could simply fling the damn bracelet at him and theatrically stomp away. (He would already know it was because you’d heard he’d been making out with someone else at a party.) So yes, I’ve considered throwing the thing away—but there’s no one to throw it at, and after all, it was a thoughtful gift from my beloved son.”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

“I don’t understand it, I don’t know it, I don’t trust it, I don’t use it and I wrote 50 books before I ever heard about AI so I don’t need it.”—John Grisham 

“A far less romantic world we would have if no one dared carry a beautiful pocket watch. The click when it opens. The snap when it shuts. The tick tock of the mechanisms in between. I believe I shall write an ode.”—from The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion, Vol. 4, by Beth Brower

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—November/December 2026—Several years ago, my youngest of three sons gave me a fashionable little gift because what mom doesn’t crave a personal fitness tracker? But truly, I was delighted (and I adore the mauve wristband he chose as well). The device is said to monitor how well I’ve slept, because of course I can’t figure that out myself (clue: bags under my eyes, persistent yawning?).  

At first, I regarded my device as a cute, portable novelty, but as the years have passed and we’ve become more attached (I went for a hike without it? Curses!) it’s become more of a judgmental and intrusive spy who wants to have a “conversation” and poses such questions as, “Was there a reason why you were up so early?” Doesn’t he (I call it he because he seems to possess an air of male energy) realize I’d rather discuss my sleeping habits with my girlfriends? And why does he never ask—as my sister or yoga pals often do—“Was it the full moon?” 

So yes, while the planet is debating whether we will still be alive in ten years due to AI, I’m in a personal, ridiculous feud with my tracker (there are a number of makes and styles, so I won’t disparage this particular one. Full transparency, however, I covet my daughter-in-law’s attractive Oura ring). 

Let me just clarify up front that if I were to focus on the existential threat of Artificial Intelligence, I would delve even deeper into the debilitating mental pit created by the cruelty, racism, violence, and selfishness of our present-day times. I choose, instead, to just not write about that right now. Rest (or like me, don’t rest) assured, however, that those topics haunt my mind on a daily and nightly basis.  

The problem is the thing just doesn’t “get” me. For instance, when I rise at 2 a.m. to scribble down some thoughts, Mr. Snoop seems to think I’m having an issue. True enough, even my husband used to ask, “What could you possibly be doing?” when I’d leap from under the covers to preserve a sentence lest it dissolve into the ether before morning. But as the years have passed, he no longer bothers to question when my muse strikes (and I do mean my unique muse, which has visited me my entire writing life beginning many decades before “Meta Muse”—or Grok or Claude—were conceived). My tracking device, however, doesn’t know or care that I’m a writer (who may one day malign him). He doesn’t understand that a writer’s muse sometimes visits in the dead of night. Mr. Curious simply demands, “What kept you up?” 

When he asks, “Did racing thoughts keep you awake for those 82 minutes?” does he really expect an answer? Does this bot really want to know that I just can’t sleep when my grown sons are flying to faraway countries? Or that I absolutely must mentally go through my clothes closet because there are things in there from the 1970s? Should I divulge to my tracker that I can’t sleep because I had delicious but highly caffeinated Vietnamese coffee at lunch? (I don’t want to imagine how I’d get scolded for that.) 

And why, during the summer months, doesn’t this savvy, smart watch inherently know in its vast wisdom that it’s 100 degrees and I don’t have central air (by choice)? Hot? Fan makes noise? Can’t sleep? “No shit, Sherlock,” as my snarky cousin used to say.

Here’s another: “Did something in the house wake you up?” Has the AI genius never heard of having to use the facilities? Does it even know that I can’t get to bed early because at my age it takes longer to get things done? He instructs me not to gaze at screens before bed (duh) but never advises, “Don’t answer the phone after 9 p.m. when that chatty friend calls with all her problems.”

In the evening, when I’m in my living room practicing some gentle yoga or following along with a YouTube Tai Chi goddess, Mr. Nosy apparently thinks I’m living the life of Gatsby. My morning message reads, “Taking 20 minutes for some laps was a solid way to move without the impact of your usual walks.” Really? No, I don’t have a pool nor do I own an elliptical, as he often erroneously assumes. I do have feet, legs, and a yoga mat, however.

Apparently, there’s a way to correct these misconceptions through some kind of setting, but I find the errors entertaining. And granted, Sir Snoop admits, “All responses may contain mistakes, not for medical advice.” I investigate whether others have experienced such discrepancies and come across a comment from one woman on Reddit who says she’s not about to tell her fitness device what she and her partner are up to after midnight in bed. Does this robot even have an inkling of what it’s like to be human? And would I want it to? I’m annoyed, after all, when he refers to himself as “I” and also when he comments, “We talked about . . .” I don’t recall “talking” about anything at all. Recently, after an evening walk, Mr. Inquisitive loftily inquired, “Was that a casual stroll with someone?” Mind your own beeswax, buddy. And anyway—arms akimbo—what if it was?

This whole wearable/fitness tracker craze reminds me of junior high school when, back in the day, the boy would give his chosen girl an ID bracelet with his name or initials engraved upon it. Thus, you belonged to that particular fellow, which would basically mean you might slow dance together to The Righteous Brothers’ “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” or the Beatles’ “Yesterday” at the noon-hour dance. And when you broke up with said boy (if you were lucky or wise enough to ditch him first), you could simply fling the damn bracelet at him and theatrically stomp away. (He would already know it was because you’d heard he’d been making out with someone else at a party.) So yes, I’ve considered throwing the thing away—but there’s no one to throw it at and, after all, it was a thoughtful gift from my beloved son. And, since I’ve been “going” with this thing for three years now, I guess if we do break up, we will have to have a “conversation.”

So, I’m thinking of digging up my grandmother’s diamond Tissot watch, which was bequeathed to me 40 years ago or more. I haven’t worn it in ages, but lately, it seems like it might be a better match than a prying wristband. Or maybe something even more ancestral feeling. Say, a beautifully weathered sundial. 

These things won’t track my steps or heartbeat, but nor will they judge or boss me. (I have a spouse for that. And btw, he loves me, too.) There’s no way in hell I’m getting into a romantic relationship with a robot, and it’s tragic to hear that people actually do.

As my mother used to ask, “What is this world coming to?” If you were here now, Mom, you just wouldn’t f-ing (a word my mother never uttered) believe it. Sighing, she would add, “What next?” Indeed.