The Maiming of the Shaming Bracelet

You might recall that one of my Christmas gifts from Genius was a Fitbit type of wrist monitor gadget (made by Garmin, of course) that counts my steps and distance walked every day. It beeps if I'm not on track to meet my daily goal, so I refer to it as the Shaming Bracelet. Still, I strap that judgmental finger-pointer on my arm every morning, and wear it until I go to bed.

Several times, the Shaming Bracelet has tried to abandon Val, throwing itself down 5 of the 13 basement stairs, dashing itself to the floor mat of T-Hoe, and on Wednesday, diving to the hardwood floor of my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel's country palace. I was lucky to find my fitness friend each time, and re-apply him to my wrist.

Last night, I made a horrific discovery.

MY SHAMING BRACELET HAD SUFFERED A MAIMING!

I take full responsibility. At least once a day, my Shaming Bracelet catches on something. Perhaps the loops of the plastic Walmart bags I used to carry two bubba cups full of ice, and one 44 oz Diet Coke down to my dark basement lair. Or tangled in the tatters of my favorite old shredded baby blue sweatshirt that I toss on to ward off the chill of the air conditioner. So perhaps this prong has been compromised daily for the past five months.

That's how it latches. Two opposing prongs slip into notches on the band. Then you turn a dial that holds them in place.

This morning (barely) around 11:50 a.m., I bemoaned the loss of my Shaming Bracelet to Hick. He was kicked back in the La-Z-Boy waiting on his tighty-whities to finish drying (the LAUNDRY, people, he didn't have an accident), and I was on the short couch, prolonging my trip to town.

"I'll have to tell Genius. Maybe there's a way to fix it. I've been putting it in my shirt pocket, but I don't think that counts all my steps."

"Can't you just tape it?"

"That would look stupid! But I guess I could."

See? That's the problem. I sometimes listen to Hick. I went to the living room closet and found six rolls of tape in disposable dispensers left over from Christmas that we'll be looking for come Christmas. I took one and (after scraping my finger on the serrated plastic edge) tore off a little piece of tape. Do you know how hard it is to try and slide a piece of clear tape between your wrist and your Shaming Bracelet without it bending or sticking? With no offer of help from you Sweet Baboo who came up with the idea, only inches away?

I finally got the tape under the band of my Shaming Bracelet, wrapped it around, and stuck it to itself.

WAIT A MINUTE!

"Hey! How am I supposed to get this off tonight?"

"Haha! I guess you'll have to cut it."

"The scissors won't fit between the tape and the band!"

"Well, I guess you'll have to use a sharp knife."

"I don't think we have a knife THAT sharp in this house."

"Sure we do. There's a couple. I have a pocket knife--"

"I am NOT letting you near my wrist with a sharp knife!"

Let the record show, people, that I have NOT been feeling depressed. If something happens to me involving a slashed wrist, Hick needs to be interrogated six ways to Sunday while hooked up to a polygraph. I'm pretty sure he's trying to kill me, you know.

I sent Genius a picture. Even though he was working, and I was stealing Garmin's time. I felt entitled. It was THEIR Shaming Bracelet. Which Genius had told me was virtually indestructible.

"How ratchet is THIS?"

"How'd you break it!"

"My Shaming Bracelet is maimed! One of the prongs broke off the fastener. It has gotten caught on things. Dad said to tape it, but now I'll have to risk cutting my wrist to get it off! Do they have replacement fastener thingies I could pop in?"

"I'll have to look."

By bedtime, that tape had loosened a bit. So I was able to escape without spilling any blood.

Until Genius finds a solution, I suppose I can tape it on every morning, and cut it off every night. At least I didn't let Hick tape in on. He'd probably use gray duct tape, at tourniquet tightness. Or loop it around my neck for good measure.