Rosie Green: There’s nothing sexier than having fun


My boyfriend sent me this message last week: “You are killing me”. And he meant it, literally.

For context, he has a new fitness gadget – a bracelet that measures the body’s stress and recovery. It’s called a Whoop ‒ but I for one don’t encourage because his incessant updates on his physical well-being get between us.

This tells him how wholesome his actions are — or not —. He likes her a little too much for my taste. He sends me screenshots of his data. “Look at the night you stayed,” he will message. “You put me in the red zone.” Indeed, the graphs generated show that my presence has a detrimental effect on his health.

When I slept at his house, his average resting heart rate during the night was 71 bpm. The nights he slept solo on either side of my stay were 57 and 58 respectively.

Surely it’s a good thing that I make his heart beat faster? Apparently not.

Then he pings his recovery score. For the uninitiated (and if that’s you, I suggest you stay that way), it reveals how well her night’s sleep worked to repair her body. During my slumber party, his percentage was terribly low and his average hours of sleep also dropped (no comment).

I think the Whoop might have to disappear or have a freak accident where he somehow encounters a blunt object with force.

Because it’s only a matter of time before the Whoop starts sensing my presence and sending flares.

It makes me consider the balance between health and pleasure in relationships. Despite all my complaints about the Whoop, my lifestyle is pretty controlled as well. Overall, I eat healthy. I exercise, get my recommended sleep times, and drink little on school nights. But romance and relationships, while mostly flourishing through healthy mental and physical habits, sometimes benefit from letting go of the brakes.

To test my theory, I let the wheels come off quite dramatically last week. I wanted the kind of evening where you lose a shoe and a bit of decorum.

It was Friday night and the boyfriend and I went to a party. I had worked hard all week and wanted a shot of hedonism. Or at least a glass of gin.

Reader, I drank my weekly allowance in three hours and only ate beige things that were high in saturated fat. I had to be helped to take off my jumpsuit at bedtime. I didn’t take off my makeup.

The next morning I woke up with a paralyzing ‘hangxiety’. As I looked at myself in the mirror (oh hello, Alice Cooper), I tried to remember what I had said to whom.

When the boyfriend woke up, I was nervous, maybe I had done irreparable damage to my reputation. But he was overjoyed.

“I need to see Four Gins Green more often,” he said.

And I realized that, for me and for him, sometimes letting go shows you’re together. That you may be vulnerable enough to let your guard down.

And it’s FUN.

I have friends who go on dates, don’t drink, and leave early to get enough sleep. Which, while understandable, isn’t so sexy.

David Beckham says that whatever restaurant he and Victoria go to, she orders steamed fish and vegetables. Again, not sexy. Guess you don’t look like Victoria Beckham over white wine vats and bar snacks. But still, sometimes, letting go is essential.

And for the Whoop? Well, that can’t measure happiness. There is no graph for the oxytocin/dopamine/serotonin hit that comes from a kiss. No graph that measures contentment or a performance index for pleasure.

Maybe I need to create one. The love-o-meter.

Meeting on Dragons Lair.


Read more of Rosie Green’s columns here


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