I'm drinking my morning coffee, and my watch is already starting to nag. "Keep it going today," she says in tiny type. "You had a great workout yesterday. Get another good one in today."

For heaven's sake, my watch is insatiable, like the gym coaches of my youth, urging me on to one more pull-up, trot, or crunch to match my peers.

It's my fault, I admit. I'm a sucker for technology, and in fact, once worked as a Retail Specialist in an Apple store. Although I already own a MacBook Air, iPhone, iPad, and Ear Buds, the iWatch had been tempting me as if she had been separated at birth, and pleaded to be reunited with her family.

But I knew my lust for the latest Apple device wouldn't satisfy doubters of my dubious decisions, so I came up with this excuse for the pricey purchase: "When I swim in the fourth floor pool of my health club," I say, earnest as a courtroom defendant, "my phone is two floors below in my locker. I can wear the watch in water, and in emergency call 9-1-1, or my daughters." (This is true; because I had already accidently dialed all three when I was testing out the watch's features.)

If that alibi doesn't convince my inquisitors, I throw in sainthood: "A few of my relatives are dealing with health issues," I say, voice lowered to match my somber intent. "The minute my capped-head surfaces, I can answer their calls on my watch." (I throw in this Esther Williams image to add glamour to my reasoning.) By the time I've finished my pitch, the busybody pats my shoulder in a "good girl" gesture, and is on their way to repeat my buy.

And while that 9-1-1 and caregiving spiel is honest, I'm learning that -- despite the nagging  -- I'm enjoying several features of my bodily companion. For example the haptic, a light vibration on my wrist that alerts me to a message, time to stand up, or to breathe for mindfulness, I see as a bonus from a more benevolent coach. She has my health as her first priority, I figure, giving me a gentle noodge when needed.

Instead of thinking of my watch as a pest, perhaps I can consider her a teeny brightly lit caregiver, who demands nothing more of me than to cheer me on.

Naturally, if I were to review my life to learn if there was someone who played that role of coach and booster, I'd have to pick Tommy, my second husband. He was an athlete who exercised until the day before he was hospitalized for a fatal illness.

Imagine him a marathoner, bicycle rider, baseball player, golfer, so you can conjure and appreciate him in his active stage. To please him, at one point, I became a member of his beloved YMCA, and we would work out together in the weight room. I can still see him at the side of a Chest Press machine, urging one more push, and then a hearty, "great girl!"

But eventually, I longed for puffy towels and other luxuries that the Y eschewed, so I switched to my current, posh health club. Tommy accompanied me a few times. We tried to work out together, but he may have felt intimidated -- or appalled. While others donned logo wardrobes, my guy preferred thrift store tees and shorts. (After he died, I held on to the faded, ripped shirts to wear as comfort clothes around the house.)

Oh, I've gone off-topic, haven't I? But that's what happens when I allow nostalgia to interrupt my flow.

Hmm, up to this point, I've been considering my watch to be an encouraging female coach, rather than a hardware collection of anodized aluminum, Lon-X glass, and mysterious code. But perhaps, as long as I'm doing the imagining, I can switch my fictional figure to Tommy. Maybe if I stretch my fantasy further, I can even consider the haptic a hug from him.

I'd like to think my hero would be pleased at my watch's ability to monitor my heart rate, and to clue me in on the climate before I walk out the door. Small things, I guess, but if you add these attributes, you might agree that she, or he, is well worth the expenditure.

And if all of that doesn't convince you that this was a necessary investment, did I tell you the dear nag also tells the time?







Copyright: <a href=''>onime / 123RF Stock Photo</a>