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Almost one year ago, to date, or maybe six months, I strapped a WHOOP band around my wrist, logged on to a technical breakdown by the WHOOP team and bathed myself in an unhealthy skepticism. The media attache was bubbly and fit, excited about how the personal digital fitness and health coach had changed her life, excited about how it would change ours.
Except dubiousness reigned in my foolish heart.
What she said made sense, sure, but I was ok, didn’t need no help, would never need help.
WHOOP was for someone else. For the generally unfit, lightly out of shape. The Gogganses of this world.
Still, I kept the sleek neoprene strop around wrist and even began checking in with the easy to navigate cellular telephone application that marked just how much my life had succumbed to a pitiful inertia.
Movement, actual movement, heart-pumping, blood-pulsing movement a rarity.
Well, I committed to changing that, slowly, at first, with a rapid uptick once I realized how much better I felt when sore, when physically tired, when actually pushing myself.
How much better I surfed.
And so I started jogging and checking my Strain numbers. I started dancing ballet and checking my Strain numbers. I began sleeping when told, resting when warned, surfing more.
And better.
All of a sudden, the active, healthy life was mine though without some major reckoning but rather simple daily reminders, tips, data and statistics.
I began plotting even more ballet performances, a path toward climbing Mt. Everest, under 6 minute mile time, session at the legendary wave that crowns surfing champions.
Lower Trestles.
WHOOP, at the end, is a dream maker and while you may remain skeptical, dubious, foolish, I dare you to try to break your own dismal inertia for we all know inertia is death.
Embarrassing demise.
