What You Do When Your Days Are Numbered
Our Quantified Selves #1
The alarm went off earlier than usual. It rang out, shrill and high pitched in the breathing stillness. The couple stirred, ruffling in the morning gloom. He rolled onto his right side and reached onto the bedside table, clasping around the phone and pressing it off. He lifted it towards him and squinted at the screen. Average waking time in the last 31 days had been at 06:32, but on 24th January the app had sounded at 06:21. It told him he’d fallen asleep at 00:04, he’d turned 3 times in the night and he’d lain an average of 12 centimetres from Sally. It knew of his long dreams, but not of the strangeness within them. The Universe reflecting on the water, cliffs and ravines no one had ever found lapped by slow waves. Anything that could be measured was measured and analysed, and recast to sound at the optimal time.
There were 4 cycles of REM. That had happened only once in the last 7 days and 5 in the last 31. It had been on a downward trend of sub-optimal for 45 days now. It had got particularly bad in the previous 3 nights but this one was good. Rarely did his girlfriend, now 103 days pregnant, rise from the bed less than 3 times. He couldn't recall if it was just once that night. He didn’t think he’d woken up and the app didn’t notice if he did. A dim light creeping past the door and the sound of flushing.
He put the phone down and kissed Sally’s forehead. She stirred in the gloom but didn't open her eyes, awake but somewhere distant, trying to grab back from the day whatever she could. Through the curtain he could see it was still dim outside so he closed his eyes for a time that he wasn't sure of, stirred, and shot out of bed. He used to snooze, but the app correlated negative workday productivity when this occurred. Time was too short to lie around any more.
One year more and this one will be a special one, he thought, grabbing his towel from a peg on the door. The year where we breakaway. My baby will be delivered and we’ll never have to worry about anything again. We’ll leave and live by blue waters and skies that meet and never end until they lap at our naked feet.
The sleep app had told the heating app to come on 25 minutes before he woke up, so the house was lukewarm. The tiles on the bathroom floor went unnoticed as he stepped towards the mirror. He stood there for a few seconds and muttered, ‘Morning.’
‘Good morning Tim. I hope you are well today,’ the mirror replied, pleasantly. He really wanted to change that message, but he couldn’t find the right option. He’d swiped madly through the settings the previous morning to no avail, leaving greasy marks across the glass. It would tell him if he wasn't anyway – there was no real hope given by the machines. Some calculator styled numbers appeared on the glass: 83 BPM. A beat. 37.1 C core temperature. ‘Your signs are almost exactly average today, Tim.’ He didn’t ask for any more clarity.
The shower came on and a timer appeared on the mirror, counting down in seconds from 4:36. He’d received a text message last Tuesday that if he reduced his time by an average of 25 seconds per day, then he could save £89.45 from his heating bill a year. He felt like he needed the money.
The water glistened down and all he could see was numbers. Strings of numbers falling to the enamel, splatting out and draining away. He put his head into the warmth and closed his eyes.
Things will go right this year. All that’s passed unquantified is just photos and memories, but now we can see what will happen. Armed with the past we can see where to go.
The shower stopped and when he opened his eyes the numbers on the mirror were flashing 00:00. He wanted more but he thought of the savings. There was an unmeasured time when he didn’t think that way, where money came and flowed and he always had enough. He was, he felt, at the base level of a trough, bottoming out before the slow burn to exponential times.
He hopped out of the shower and grabbed his towel from the radiator, and began rubbing himself dry. Finishing, he tied it round his waist and pressed on the bottom of the mirror. There was a simulated click and it opened slowly to reveal a bathroom cabinet. He took his toothbrush and MacLeans toothpaste, laid it out and began to brush. The door closed slightly quicker than it had opened. A Colgate logo flickered onto the glass. He spat and left before Gillette came on. He really wanted a new mirror.
He returned to their room, switched on the light and picked up his phone from the table. He opened his wardrobe app and it reasoned, because the weather was overcast and the temperature outside was 6C, that he wore mustard coloured jeans, a blue t-shirt and heavy woollen grey pullover. You have not worn these clothes for 32 days. Have they fallen out of favour? Buy now. He decided to wear them.
After dressing he couldn’t find his glasses. He grabbed his phone again and asked it quietly to find them, Sally stirred and there was a muted vibration. And again. He turned to his drawer. And again. 2nd one down. He opened it. They weren’t there. A sock shook slightly. He pushed it aside, picked the glasses up and put them on. In the top left was the time: 07:02. In the top right were his notifications: 2 Facebook notifications, 943 unread emails. He took them off and pressed the top of the right hand lens. When he put them on again they were gone.
He started work early, but he had a rule that he would never deal with emails unless he was in his office. He had broken that rule 18 times in the last 23 working days, and he’d broken it 5 times in the last 4 weekends. It was always in the evening.
He had other rules too – like that he wouldn’t stay in his office past 7: broken 14/23. That he wouldn’t drink alcohol during the week: broken 6/23. That he wouldn’t drink more than 10 units if he ever drank: broken 5/6. That he wouldn’t meet Julie in the next month: broken 4/31. That if he should, that he wouldn’t spend the night with her: broken 4/4.
He looked back at his pregnant girlfriend. Despite the light she appeared fast asleep. Not everything was recorded; some numbers were not held so they could never be used against him. He picked up his prepacked bag, flicked off the light and went out onto the landing. There were three steps down and an opening to the kitchen. He went through and turned on the light, then leant up against the fridge, took his phone out and checked his Twitter DMs. He’d disabled viewing DMs on his glasses because it would be too easy for Sally to see them.
No new messages. He felt a little relieved, fearing she might message him in the night. All interaction was deleted before he stepped into his house. That was one rule he’d kept since he’d met her; he never texted or called her, he was always extremely diligent. Twitter was a good hiding place, since Sally never used it. He’d suggested using Snapchat but she said she felt that would be worse. Lying front down in bed naked above the covers, looking up at him with a wry smile as he turned to leave the previous evening. Don’t get caught, she’d giggled.
Don’t worry.
I’m not the one who should be worried.
He wondered how this might end. It was 34 days since it started.
I know. But I won’t.
