when 57 actually means 0

Let me start out by saying I love Apple products.  And that this is probably my fault for my charging habits, and not Apple’s, but I’m all about the blame game when my music craps out 2/3 of the way through a run.

I won’t lie.  I wasn’t just listening to music on my phone.  But I also wasn’t using Snapchat, nor was I on Facebook or any other social media.  I may have sent a text message or two, but that really, truly was it.  It was 30 minutes spent “off the grid” outside during some amazing sunshine that we don’t often see out here in Dairyland.  In fact, it’s April 29, and we’ve probably had two consecutive days of sunlight in the last seven months, and we have yet to reach more than a day and a half of 60º weather before it plummets back down to the 30s and 40s.  So trust me when I say I was soaking. it. up.

Okay, I also had the stopwatch going on my phone.

Because I saw an article on Facebook yesterday that said high intensity interval workouts lasting ten minutes are just as effective as a regularly paced workout lasting 50-60 minutes.

cred

Let’s put it this way.  When I go to my company’s business presentations on Tuesday nights, they ask for a show of hands from guests checking out the business for themselves.

Do you want the 2-3 year plan to being financially fit?  Or the typical 9-5, 8-hour work day plan that averages about 45 years?  When I was a guest, I raised my hand for the 2-3 year plan.  Duh.  This is why I’m in the business I’m in.  This is also why I will happily pound the pavement and run like I’m on fire for 30 seconds every two minutes for ten minutes a day, rather than stomach the idea of being in the gym for upwards of an hour of misery each day.  Because I won’t go for the hour.  I will literally sit on my couch wanting to go, but I won’t actually do it.  And then I get annoyed with myself, frustrated for being lazy, I feel unproductive, etc, etc and the day goes downhill.

However, the idea of working harder for less time as opposed to semi-hard for six times as long actually really motivates me to put the rubber to the road (literally) and get ‘er done each day.  Similar with my business as well.  (Hey guys, who knew that working on your bikini body for your Florida trip in July was basically a metaphor for life?)

Except for today, when I checked my phone before leaving, and saw that it was at 57% battery.  That’s plenty right?  If I don’t use Snapchat which is the battery equivalence of a lethal injection.  I made sure to close all the apps, do nothing requiring any data, not even checking the time that frequently.  And yet there I was, about a mile from Anthony’s work, when I heard my music fading out, and my trusty piece of shit phone slipping into a coma.  Great.  A problem for several reasons.

a. My music, my driving force, the gas to my mental car was gone.  I couldn’t even finish the song.  Have you ever gone on a run without music?  Did you finish?  Maybe.  But did you hate every second of it more than normal?  Of course you did.  Unless you enjoy running.  Which makes you a personal hero of mine.

b. This is how people end up on Dateline.

c. I specifically ran to Anthony’s work a few miles out, and specifically left in time to get there for his lunch break, so that I could very specifically get in a scenic route without having to do that “I want to go to this place but if I do I will have to go that much farther to get home” thing that lazy people such as myself do.

So there I was, loitering outside Anthony’s work avoiding the gaze of security like some criminal, willing Anthony to instinctively know that I was out there and just happen to decide to leave for lunch before my text message.  All the while trying to coax my phone back to life.  Which would work at random, and the little guy would spring back into action.  At 45% battery.  And then as I would draft my quick “I’m here battery dying” text message, it would fade away as quickly as it awoke.  (I’m aware I could have been even more brief in my SOS.  But I’m a girl.  That’s as brief as we get.)

As it turns out, I’m not a telepath, and after 15 minutes of loitering, I went to the grocery store down the street and begged for their phone.  After first starting to reflexively give the woman my phone number instead of Anthony’s, I then waited as she took a real phone call and later redialed for me, the dependent millennial in her checkout line.  🙄

Eventually I got ahold of Anthony, who was actually on his way out of the office after all, leaving me with no other conclusion that I am in fact telepathic.  And that my phone sucks.  And that 57% percent actually misleadingly means “on the brink of death!!1!11!”

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