What My Daughters Wrought on Me When They Got Me an Apple Watch
I’m aware that complaining about harassment by Brahms’ “Lullaby” is, well, unusual. You’ll need some context. The first thing you should keep in mind is that I’m what used to be called “up in years.” I don’t mind being described that way, or by just about any of the alternatives except senior citizen. The word codger, for instance, is perfectly acceptable. Also, you should know that I am fortunate enough to have two daughters who are concerned with my well-being—so concerned that I sometimes refer to them as “the nursing staff.”
One more thing. Like a lot of codgers, I am not a deft user of digital devices. In fact, I’m on the record as declaring that my most dreaded word in the English language is upgrade. As I have envisioned it, when those clever children in the Silicon Valley have reason to believe that grown-ups are beginning to understand how to operate their laptop or mobile phone, someone yells “upgrade!” and everyone drops what they were doing (e.g., ping-pong) to help design more complication into the system.
In fact, the return of superheroes to popular entertainment has caused me to imagine one called Super Klutz. And what is his superpower? He can produce solutions to a citizen who is befuddled by the digital world. Let’s say a citizen who is not a deft user of digital devices needs to talk to Verizon, the company contracted to handle his mobile-phone account. There is, of course, no telephone number on Verizon’s website. Going to Google produces a list of sites that don’t seem to be connected to Verizon; some of them have the look of those operations that with a single click might instantly empty his bank account into an untraceable dwelling near Vladivostok. The irony of a telephone company making it difficult to communicate by telephone is not lost on this citizen. He is becoming increasingly frustrated. Harsh language is used.
Poof! Super Klutz appears. His costume includes a spandex jersey that bears the Super Klutz initials flanking a rendition of an Underwood typewriter, circa 1958. He is carrying what looks like a gigantic paperback book. “Perhaps this will help,” he says, thrusting the volume toward the befuddled citizen. “It’s called a telephone directory.”
The befuddled citizen opens the directory to the V’s, and there is the number for him to dial. It’s answered with a recorded list of options that does not include his reason for calling, but at least he has made contact.
What does all this have to do with the Brahms lullaby? Just this. My daughters decided that I should have an Apple Watch. I didn’t pay perfect attention to the discussion of why; I find that the best practice is just to do whatever the nursing staff tells me to do. But as I understand it, if I fall while wearing the Apple Watch, the watch will alert 911, my doctor, my daughters, the Department of Homeland Security, and, possibly, my cousin Edna in Terre Haute. The nursing staff promised to set it up for me. I promised to keep it on and keep it charged—although it occurred to me that having one more device to charge might require crawling under the stove for an outlet anytime I want to use the toaster.
Which brings us, finally, to Brahms’ “Lullaby.” Among the myriad services the Apple Watch provides, it can be set to play the first three notes of the lullaby at a specified time every evening. My watch was so set. At 10:30 every night, those first three notes lulled me to sleep. That is, they lulled me to sleep if I wasn’t asleep already—in which case, the Brahms lullaby, despite its name and its efficacy over generations at lulling people to sleep, would wake me up.
My daughters, both away on long trips to exotic destinations, were unavailable to turn off the lullaby function. So I needed to stay awake until 10:30 every evening to avoid being jarred awake as I was drifting off. Without going into every method I employed to do that, I might mention that there were three separate rearrangements of my sock drawer.
Finally, one of my daughters returned. After accidentally eliminating the function that displayed my blood-oxygen levels and one that would permit me to make my own emojis, she was able to turn off the watch’s lullaby function. As I lay in bed that evening, I thought about how grateful I was that I would no longer have to extend wakefulness by, say, alphabetizing the books on my bookshelves. I thought of some other stalling tactics that I had been spared. Then, for a long time, I didn’t think of anything. Then I started counting sheep. At some point, I looked at my watch, which lights up in the dark. It was 11:15. Without the Brahms lullaby, I seemed to be having trouble falling asleep.
