How my Fitbit tracked one crazy drunk adventure

That time my fitness tracker helped retrace my drunk-steps

Just like you’ve seen reenacted in numerous movies, I jolted awake to the bright sunlight peering through my window. Eyes wide, with the all too familiar “oh shit” feeling rushing over me.

Yup, I blacked out again. Or browned out.

It’s Sunday morning. I turn to get out of bed and go to the bathroom when I feel something around my neck jerk me back into bed. As I blindly feel around my throat I untangle my 6-foot iPhone cord that’s been tied around my neck…I don’t even have the energy to question what kind of new fetish I might have experimented with last night when I assumably tied this. Add it to the list.

I finally get out of bed after untying my snooze-noose (temporary name. As I take my first step sharp pains radiate through both of my tight calves and my legs lock up.

Then I remember. I ran home last night after an odd turn of events left me alone in Beverly Hills at 2am with a dead phone and a strong desire to be in bed.

I don’t remember how or why I ended up in this situation (I still don’t) but when you’re in a situation with no phone, nobody around you, and you have to get home you’re not left with many choices.

So I went with the most obvious option — I started jogging. Then running. Then ran out of breathe and walked for about 30 seconds before the alcohol in my system told my brain “ugh this is taking too long” so I picked up the pace again.

Now a few things to note:

  1. I recently bought a Fitbit to track my (sober) fitness goals.
  2. I have a history of getting beer muscles. Meaning when I get drunk I get the urge to embark on 3am bike rides through Santa Monica by myself. Not sure if it’s being alone on the barren streets that normally are congested with people in a hurry or if I just like to zone out and run/bike in silence when I’m intoxicated. I’ll add it to my list-of-things-to-investigate-at-a-later-time along with my possible new interest in autoerotic asphyxiation.

I finally plug my dead phone in to charge, glancing down at my Fitbit to see what time it is.

2:34pm.

I’ve just woke up at 2:34pm and it says I’ve already burnt 3,024 calories and ran 7.17 miles! The previous night’s turn of events slowly come back to memory…

Around 10pm my buddy and I, let’s call him Fetty (not Wap), arrive at a house in Mount Olympus (nowhere near Beverly Hills) that one of his real estate friends rented for their birthday. By the time we arrive we’ve each already had 6 vodka+waters a piece. And as 2 heterosexual males in our mid 20’s this is the optimal group of people to party with since not only are they awesome, fun human beings but besides us 2, the men are all gay and the woman are absolutely beautiful. We proceed to make ourselves more vodka+water.

11:30pm — The bartenders start bringing all of the alcohol from the pool into the house so we take a few shots and about 12 of us go back to birthday-boy’s condo in WeHo (still nowhere near Beverly Hills) to continue drinking. Now, last time I was at this house was 2 months prior and I walked into his living room to 50 inflatable naked midgets hanging from his ceiling.

This time I walked in to no midgets, but a 2-liter sized flesh colored dildo sitting on his dining room table next to an admittedly well put together bouquet of flowers. Classy. Not surprising at this point, although interesting.

At this time, I think it’s a great idea to Snapchat the dildo and create a sticker out of it, adding the dildo-sticker to every photo I take that night.

I then have my second great idea of the night and decide we should play darts by throwing the dildo, suction cup first, at his 20 foot mirror in his living room. Sober-me can’t believe the 2-liter-peter didn’t break the mirror.

So we’re playing dick-darts with a dildo so heavy it could be used as a hammer, everybody’s loving us, and we’re all having a great time together. Fetty is roaming around being the life of the party. I’m sitting on a beautiful girl’s lap (seriously what was she thinking letting me do that?) in a condo holding birthday-boy’s little Malti-Poo in one hand and a monster-rubber-dong in the other, while she films snapchats on my phone and I add dildo stickers to them like a little degenerate Dr.Evil.

1pm — We’ve all made our way upstairs into birthday-boys bedroom by this time even though birthday-boy has a habit of disappearing without anybody knowing he left. It was at this time somebody asked “wait…where did ‘birthday-boy’ go?” Nobody had a clue, and that one question was the extent anybody took to look for him.

Fetty is asleep on the floor of the bedroom with the rest of the party all seated around him, chatting and laughing hysterically.

Now at this time, I’m feeling great, I’m maybe 12 or 15 vodka+water’s deep, and I’m convinced this girl that let me sit on her lap is in love with me. Or I’m in love with her. Either way I’m already hooked. No PDA. No hanging all over each other except for when I was on her lap. Just exchanging looks from across the room as we sit there talking.

I’m a gentleman after all.

1:30pm — Things start to turn. Like a full 180°. Out of nowhere one of the birthday-boy’s gay friends starts berating this girl, yelling all sorts of rude things at her.

“Why are you even here?”
“You’re such a slut.”
“Ugh nobody even likes you.”

Now, I only mention his sexual orientation because I’ve started noticing a trend. I’m starting to learn that A) gay guys are extremely territorial over their other male friend’s homes/belongings and B) don’t get in the middle of a fight between any girl and a gay guy.

This goes on for about 2 minutes before I walked up next to him and in a very polite tone said “hey man, I’m not sure what y’alls history is but maybe this isn’t the place to be doing this?”

To which his response was “oh do you think we’re friends now?”
“We just danced, drank, and played dick-darts with a foot-long dildo for 3 hours so yes?”

Which I thought was a reasonable response since I befriend everybody almost instantly. Apparently not.

We get half kicked out and half left because why tf would we stay after she was embarrassed and insulted like that? I’m also not so sure if she’s in love with me anymore.

Que brown out.

Not sure how much time passed but by the time I finally come back out of my brown out, I’m alone, in Beverly Hills.

I live in Santa Monica.

Shit.

I begin to run toward my home.

After a mile, I realize I’m headed in the wrong direction.

Double shit.

I take my shirt off and continue running down Olympic Blvd. in jeans and Doc Martin boots, determined to get home.

Not sure what time it is at this point, but it’s been quite some time and I can see the sun start to rise as I’m about a half mile away from home.

When retracing my night by looking at my Fitbit stats they let me know that I went to sleep at 6:53am. My phone cord around my neck and bottle of lotion next to my bed lets me know that I have some deeper questions to dive into. And my surprising ability to wake up, drive to Hermosa Beach for a friends birthday pool party, and then meal prep for the week lets me know that no matter how wild and rambunctious I get, I still have some priorities in the right place.

I never included this in the uses I would get out of wearing a Fitbit, but I have a feeling I’ll be utilizing this feature more often than intended…


Vance is a 25 year old creative professional, traveler, and group fitness instructor that lives in Santa Monica, CA. When I’m not working, writing, filming, or teaching I enjoy getting myself into trouble and drinking heavily with my friends.

Hopefully we’ll run into each other one of these nights.

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