As I glided my feet into my Skechers Hands Free Slip-ins, I thought – in the middle of my ecstasy – “This is it. This is the beginning of the end.”
Not because they weren’t amazing; and comfortable; and faultlessly simple to don … but because we, as a society, have finally found a way to get our feet into a pair of sneakers without having to bend down. Can a voluntary iron lung be far behind?
Before I start on our journey together, let me first mention that I have never been one of those who can effortlessly touch their toes. From when I was a wannabe ballet dancer, I had hamstrings like iron girders. While all the other girls bent at the waist to brush a dust bunny away from their toes – and then, while they’re down there, inspect their knees, basically eyeball-to-kneecap – I was the one bouncing in the background to try and brush her ankles with her fingertips.
As the Mandalorian says: “This is the way.” Some are flexible; some are not. I be not.
Things have not improved with age. Weight, psoriatic arthritis, weight … all have contributed to a less flexible Vicki, and so when Skechers launched this new line of you-won’t-have-to-strain-yourself-in-any-way footwear, I was immediately on the bandwagon. And there’s the problem.
When I thought about it, how many modern marvels have turned us into a bunch of lazy couch potatoes? Not everyone, of course. The Kerri Kanugas of this world have proven that no matter how easy it would be to sit and watch TV while eating a jar of Cheez Whiz with a large spoon (I’m guessing), one can motivate oneself to move, exercise and keep muscular and limber. But the more inventions that come along to simplify our lives, the more the weak of us happily get on board and move less.
I work mainly from home these days. I’m sure it sounds like a dream for a lot of people; but my Apple Watch would disagree. I don’t think I realised the number of steps I racked up each day going from my desk to someone else’s desk. From my desk to reception. From my desk to the toilets down the hall. From my desk to the graphic designers up the stairs. Beyond losing the social interaction, I lost all that movement I was clocking in per day without even knowing I was doing it.
Oh yes, and how about walking from my house to my vehicle; vehicle to the office; office to the vehicle; vehicle into the house? I barely drive out anywhere these days. I own a petrol-guzzling Ford Expedition, and I have to fill the tank about every two months (which turns out to be extremely advantageous, considering the situation in the Middle East).
The more I thought about our modern-day lives, the more I recognised that with every new convenience comes a fresh onus on us to keep doing things for ourselves, because we’re a hair’s-breadth away from a robot service that will spoon food into our mouths while we lie in bed and work from there without barely lifting a finger.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Vicki!” you may exclaim. We still have to type out emails, and messages. Oh? Do we?
Speaking as someone with long natural nails – like those of the sea hag in ‘Widow’s Bay’ (please watch that show, it is AMAZING) – I recently joined the throng of those who dictate into their phones and the words appear like magic. As Harry Potter might say: “Talkiewordus!”
I do not like leaving voice notes for people. I find myself umming and ahhing through them, tripping over a word or repeating myself. Anyone receiving one from me would inevitably see “Deleted” umpteen times, because the perfectionist in me can’t bear to leave something that sounds like I have a peanut stuck in my throat.
I’m also not a big fan of trying to listen to voice notes sent to me, as often I’m somewhere loud and busy, and the slightest tilt or jog of my phone stops the message and I have to start all over again.
So, imagine my delight when I found out that I could use a voice recognition option on my iPhone, where it would translate my words into text.
I don’t know that bestie and housemate Lynne is so terribly thrilled that I’ve discovered this. We’ll be about to watch a film, when I’ll suddenly put my finger up – the universal symbol for ‘pause’ – and grab my phone, hold it up to my mouth, and start speaking in an exaggerated tone at full volume: “Hi Tom EXCLAMATION POINT How are you QUESTION MARK I think you have to set up by the pool tomorrow COMMA but I’ll confirm and get you the contact FULL STOP Thanks EXCLAMATION POINT.”
If we were a couple, it would be understandable grounds for divorce. But I have to say, having typed, deleted, retyped, deleted, carefully retyped and sent messages that suffered from, apparently, being banged out by my dustbin thumbs, this feature really is a breath of fresh air. There are aspects upon which I am not keen. The random uppercase letters drive me potty, and the device’s choice to replace every “going to” with “gonna” is downright vexing, but when you have as much to say as I have (a few might say TOO much), it is incredibly useful. However, when my thumbs seize and my hands become claws in 10 years’ time due to underuse, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
Remember car windows that you had to wind down using arm muscles? All automatic now. Anyone recall the days before power steering, when you’d be eating spinach like Popeye just to get yourself around a 90-degree corner?
Hold onto yourselves, kids – we used to have to get up and change the TV channels by HAND. None of this remotes malarkey.
Calculators replaced slide rules. The dawn of the Internet slowly killed the physical motion of thumbing through encyclopaedic tomes. Electric bikes reduce the need for pedalling, and, yes, slip-on shoes mean no bending down, or lifting feet.
So many of these examples are of small movements, but when they add up, it equals to your Apple Watch finding it harder and harder to tell the difference between when you’re asleep and when you’re awake.
Come tomorrow, I’m going to bend down and put on some sneakers that my feet don’t just slip into. I’ll put on socks; hold the backs of the shoes so my heels don’t painfully catch on them; and even tie shoelaces.
Actually, maybe on the weekend. At the very least, Tuesday.
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