Agony, Revisited

Bright and early Monday morning, I posted a rant about New Balance discontinuing my shoe style and, if I plan to replace my current pair, I'll have to shell out full price for whichever style took its place--just when I really don't need to be forking over $100. And I especially now don't need to be forking over $100 since my drug monograph editing gig abruptly ended Monday afternoon. (Life has such great timing, doesn't it?)

Well, the shoe mishap hasn't been my only, err, equipment failure, if you will. Tuesday my beloved Nike+ sportsband decided to play its part in my current little drama by dying. Okay, it really didn't die: its display just went kaput after some moisture--perhaps from me sweating or perhaps from a the slightly humid Spin room--seeped in and obliterated it. The USB key worked just fine when I plugged it in after getting home and finding the display blank, but without the display, it's damn hard to know if you've tripped it to record a run or not.

When I initially saw the blank screen, I thought perhaps my failing to fully charge it before heading off to the downtown gym to run (just 2 miles) and Spin with the World's Greatest Spin Instructor had been my downfall. But the USB key indicated a full charge when I plugged it into my computer upon arriving home, so that's when I did some research, found this nice discussion thread helpfully titled "Sportband Display Gone Bad" and deduced that most likely I'd sweat too much for my sportsband (and I really wasn't sweating that much since I was kinda slackin' since I was concerned about aggravating my hamstring quirk) or the Spin room had been too moist because for once, we had some moisture in the air (even got a little rain, which hasn't happened in ages--but, as I stated before, the Spin room wasn't anywhere near as humid as some Spin rooms and group X studios I've had classes in).

Regardless of the reason why my sportsband display was blank, I knew that I had to get it replaced--and quickly. For you see, Gentle Reader, I was coming up on the 50-mile mark, and I really, really want to record every possible mile I can. "Why?" you ask, Gentle Reader? Because I'm anal. And crazy. Just accept it.

Luckily, I had a great experience when I called Nike's customer service hotline (how rare is it for someone to use the adjective great when describing a call to a customer service hotline?), and I was determined that Wednesday I'd simply drive up to Round Rock to the Nike outlet where I'd first bought my sportsband on July 26 and swap it for a new one. Such a simple, obvious plan, right?

Join me, Gentle Reader, in laughing at my own foible. There's far too much truth to that addage, "Man plans, God laughs."


Round Rock Expedition I
Believe it or not, Gentle Reader, I halved my gym time this morning just so I could get to Round Rock expeditiously. That's right--I actually altered my routine. Unbelievable, non?

Well, I promised myself that once I got a working sportsband, I'd hit the gym, put in four miles or so to calibrate the new shoe chip (which I wasn't really looking forward to doing, but it's got to be done) and then return on Thursday for another four or so miles. That's how I bargained with my anal retentive self and got myself that "reprieve" from the standard operating procedure.

And I did do that. I arrived at the Nike store a minute or two after its 10 AM opening time, explained the situation to the staffers (who were all standing around at one of the registers) and walked out with a new-to-me sportsband that I was anxious to get home and get charged so I could get to running.

Notice, Gentle Reader, that I used the phrase "new-to-me" to describe the sportsband I was given to replace my defective one. I had a sneaking suspicion even while I was in the store that the replacement wasn't brand spankin' new:

• It wasn't in a white pasteboard box as my first one had been.
  
• One of the clear stickers helping to keep closed the acrylic box had curled away as if it had been removed several times and had lost its sticky power.
  
• The other clear sticker on the acrylic box had a second sticker atop it on which was printed "39." Such a sticker had been on my first sportsband's acrylic box, and that number seemed suspicious, as if it were shorthand for "returned item."

When I got home, I discovered further evidence that my replacement sportsband was not brand spankin' new: I plugged in the USB key to charge it, and the sucker was fully charged. These things don't ship with fully charged batteries, Gentle Reader. After installing the Nike+ software, users are to let the key charge--it's in the instructions and set-up guide. While I remained suspicious, I also saw the surprise fully charged battery as a blessing, for it meant I didn't have to wait an hour or two to get to the gym and get in my calibrating run time. Hey hey! I can be home by noon and enjoy a full afternoon! I thought as I strapped on my replacement sportsband and headed out the door.

That sunny disposition of mine (such a rarity, let me assure you, especially since I had to guilt myself into going back to the gym despite my bargain with myself) came to a stormy end when I went to press the button on the sportsband to trigger its recording feature: My replacement sportsband's display had dead pixels. Not just one or two, but a big cluster of 'em in the lower right-hand corner, along with a scattering along the bottom moving toward the left-hand corner. The cluster was big enough to distort certain numbers--and big enough to warrant its return by its original purchaser, most likely. It was sure as hell big enough to warrant my ire for there was no way in the FSM's giant bowl of fettuccine that I was keeping a defective display. No way no how, if even keeping it and being satisfied that the display worked well enough to make the entire unit useful.

I must tell you at this point, Gentle Reader, that I'm not one of those demanding, overbearing customers who demands nothing but the best and will let anyone and everyone know about any perceived slight or dissatisfaction. I accept that electronics these days are cheap and disposable and that dead pixels happen and aren't a sign that the productive is defective. However, my original sportsband had been working just fine with no flaws, and I'd expected to receive a replacement of no lesser quality. I'd spent my good money on this treat for myself, and I wanted its replacement to be of the same quality as the original (before it went kaput, that is).

I put in my run, trying very hard not to let the situation with the sportsband get to me, got my sweaty ass to my car, left a message on the husband's voicemail in which I ranted about the situation, then drove home so I could shower, change, get more water and head back to Round Rock.


Round Rock Expedition II
I'll admit to you, Gentle Reader, that for all my ire over the situation, I was nervous about returning the replacement band. I'm not one for being demanding; so, yeah, I'm a bit of a pushover at times because I'm not one for being loud or coming across as demanding or obnoxious. (Let's just say I leave the role of the demanding, sometimes...blunt customer up to my mum and my older sister.) I'd prefer to be genial and accommodating because, hey, aren't you supposed to catch more bees with honey than vinegar?

Let me tell you that when I walked into the story and saw nary a soul who had been there that morning, I was silently giving thanks and praise to the FSM above for small favors. Yes, Gentle Reader, I really am a chickenshit.

The young woman working the lone open register was very cordial and accommodating when I explained the situation. (The bitch in line behind me, who stayed behind me even though she had three opportunities to be first in line at another register, wasn't very cordial as she impatiently tapped her foot and, later, her credit card on the counter.) She had the situation taken care of all by herself (it took three people earlier in the morning), and I was out the door with a sportsband that was most definitely and very obviously brand spankin' new within 10 minutes.

You might be wondering, Gentle Reader, if I think the clerks from the morning expedition knowingly gave me a returned-for-defects sportsband because many other companies (i.e., electronics companies) will exchange used, defective but still under warranty items with used but refurbed units. My answer is no. Do I think they gave me a used unit because they weren't paying attention or just didn't give a dilly damn about really satisfying the customer because, hey, they're just minimum wage slaves so why should they bust their ass for any customer? You betcha.

And I find that situation sad. What ever happened to the work ethic? I was raised with the silly notion that no matter your salary and job duties, you had to earn that wage, whether it was mowing lawns (done that), scrubbing toilets (done that), flipping burgers (done that), stocking shelves (done that), bagging groceries (done that), sitting in front of a computer all day (done that) or whatever the job's duties are. Showing up and wearing the name tag or uniform you're required to wear doesn't entitle you to your pay. I was also raised with that silly notion that when you're in the service industry, you should work your damnedest to satisfy as many customers as you can--and try not to let the obnoxious ones send you over the edge into a bone-smashing showdown. I plan to raise the boy with that same work ethic and that same guiding principal: you are entitled to nothing.

Is it asking too much to expect people to be attentive in their jobs? Yeah, I know, Gentle Reader--that's a lot to ask for of people on the job because too many folks aren't attentive to much except how soon they can (over)fill their belly and obliterate their consciousness with the latest and greatest in entertainment, be it media, booze, drug or whatever form of diversion.

Le sigh.