Fitness app tracks my steps to dystopia

TO combat my worsening clinomania — it’s like nymphomania, except instead of wanting sex all the time, you fast forward to the bit afterwards, where you just want to lie in bed all the time, propped up on squashy pillows, wrapped in furry blankets, staring dreamily into space — I wear a device on my wrist that tells me to move. It’s a fitness tracker. Maybe you have one, writes Suzanne Harrington.

Until recently, I was unaware of their existence (because in order to keep up with technological innovations, you do occasionally have to get out of bed, if only to charge your phone).

And then my new boyfriend shows me his. (Fitness tracker. Stop it).