When my heart rate monitor died a few weeks ago, I decided to spring for a new GPS watch instead of waiting for the Polar to come back from the factory. I’d tried using the Map My Run app on my phone, but found it unreliable (one day it told me I’d walked 24 miles in two minutes, which was patently wrong but, nevertheless, absurdly pleasing). So I was very excited to get the Garmin. It tracks not only heart rate, but also mileage and pace.

At first I got a kick out of measuring my well-trod walking and running routes. I even pushed myself a little harder, going a few extra tenths of a mile to round the distance up to an even number. But as I became increasingly fixated on the mileage, a funny thing happened: I started to resent the Garmin. It was making me feel bad.

I understand why I anthropomorphize the GPS in my car. It speaks to me— in a Crocodile Dundee voice, no less (my kids thought the Australian accent would make it sound more chill).  If I miss a turn, it whines, “recalulating,”  letting me know it’s put out. And if I choose to ignore its directions and take a different route, it becomes stubbornly, passive-aggressively silent, giving no warning of an upcoming turn until I’m just a few feet from the intersection.

But the watch doesn’t talk. Even so, I frequently feel it mutely reproaching me. I’ll be jogging along, enjoying the weather and getting into my stride, when I glance at the flashing pace indicator. Oh no! How can I be so slow? I’m so out of shape! My good mood instantly sours.

Never mind that the GPS, although better than the phone app, isn’t without its quirks. When I’m at a dead standstill, for instance, bending over to scoop up after one of the dogs, the numbers say I’m moving at a 20 minute per mile pace. Unreliable as it is, the watch can ruin a perfectly good workout for me.

When I wear it, I focus on the critical messsages my brain is beaming out rather than paying attention to my body.  The mental interference detracts from one of the major perks of exercise for a person who spends most of the time in her head: it provides an opportunity to get out of “doing” mode (an analyzing, judging state of mind) and spend some quality time in “being” mode, or mindfulness.

I wish there were an electronic exercise monitor I could program to speak. Only instead of barking out directions like the GPS in my car, it would offer gentle reminders to stay in the moment. I imagine it sounding not like an Australian drill sergeant but like an Indian Yoga instructor, saying in a lilting voice:

“ I’m so pleased you invited me to join you on your journey. First notice your feet, one after the other, making contact with the hard ground. Feel your toes bend and your ankles flex. Pay attention to the rise and fall of your chest as you breath in and out. You don’t need to try to control it. The breath breathes itself. We’re not in a hurry to get anywhere. Where you are is where you need to be.”

Until someone invents such a device, I’ve decided to leave the Garmin at home for a while. I think I’ll enjoy my runs and walks more if I don’t know how fast I’m going. The dogs will appreciate a slower pace, too. I’ll let them stop and smell the roses, along with the many more odiferous substances along the way.