(The comedian walks onto the stage, adjusts the mic, and looks slightly exhausted.)
How’s everyone doing? Good? I’m doing okay. I’m at that age now where my body has started making "executive decisions" without consulting me first.
Like, I woke up yesterday with a back injury. Do you know how I got it? I slept. I slept too hard. Apparently, I’m now at a point in my life where unconsciousness is a high-impact sport. I didn’t fall out of bed. I didn't have a nightmare where I was fighting a bear. I just… existed horizontally for seven hours, and my spine was like, "Absolutely not. We’re going on strike."
And have you noticed how aggressive technology has become about our health? I have a smartwatch. I hate it. It’s like wearing a tiny, judgmental middle-manager on my wrist.
The other day, I was sitting on my couch, halfway through a bag of salt and vinegar chips—living my best life—and my watch vibrated. I thought, Oh, maybe someone loves me. No. I looked down and it just said: "Time to stand up!"
I’m in my own house! I paid for this couch! And this piece of plastic is telling me I’m failing at gravity. So I did what any rational person would do—I shook my arm vigorously for thirty seconds so the watch would think I was walking, then I went back to my chips. I’m outsmarting a robot just so I can be lazy in peace.
But the worst part is the "Stress Alerts." My watch will buzz and say, "Your heart rate is elevated. Would you like to do a breathing exercise?"
No, I would not! Do you know why my heart rate is up? Because you just vibrated on my arm and made me think I was having a medical emergency! You’re the source of the stress, Gary! I named my watch Gary. He’s a narc.
And don’t get me started on online shopping reviews. I spent two hours last night reading reviews for a spatula. Why? It’s a piece of silicone. But I’m there, scrolling through the comments, and I see a one-star review from a guy named Brenda.
Brenda says, "It was too floppy. 1 star."
Brenda, it’s a spatula! It’s designed to be floppy! What were you trying to do with it? Flip a manhole cover? But now, because of Brenda, I’m looking at my current spatula like it’s a traitor. I’m questioning my entire kitchen setup because a stranger on the internet had a bad Tuesday.
We have too much information now. Back in the day, if you wanted a toaster, you went to the store, you bought the one that looked the least like a fire hazard, and you went home. If it burnt the toast, you just learned to like the taste of charcoal.
Now? I have to compare the "heating consistency" of 45 different models. I’m reading "Toaster Enthusiast" forums. There are people out there who have passions for bread-browning technology. I saw a guy post a YouTube video called "The Toaster the Big Bread Companies Don't Want You to Know About."
It’s twenty minutes long! Who is watching this? Me. I am. At 2:00 AM. While my back hurts from lying down.
I miss being a kid when the only "data" I had was how fast I could run in my new sneakers. You’d put on a pair of Velcro Nikes and suddenly you were convinced you could break the sound barrier. You didn't need a watch to tell you to stand up. You stood up because there was a cool rock outside.
Now, I need an app to remind me to drink water. Water! The basic fuel of life. My phone goes ding and I’m like, "Oh, right. Hydration. I forgot I was a biological organism for a second. Thanks, Steve Jobs."
Anyway, I’m gonna go sit down now. My watch is already telling me I’ve reached my "social interaction limit" for the day.
(Comedian checks his wrist, nods, and walks off.)
