Sunday, April 24, 2005

I’m just not working out

My sister Amy often accuses me of stealing her height; she is exactly five inches shorter than both of our parents, and I am exactly five inches taller. I don’t really see what all the whining is about, especially since she totally stole any ovaries I might have had coming my way.

When my wife Kara and I were visiting her in San Francisco last week, Amy actually brought up the height thing again. She only complains because she doesn’t know what it’s like to spend the better part of one’s life banging one’s head into light fixtures. I have to wear a bike helmet to go to casual dining restaurants. Besides, being shorter gives her a natural advantage at many things, such as The Limbo, and spotting loose change on the ground.

Height is a pretty insignificant thing to get upset about, anyway – she’s the one who stole all the motivation. I’d rather have that. Amy has run two marathons in the past few years, and is training for a third. The only thing I run is stoplights.

I hate running. If I die and come back as a gerbil, and you buy me, save yourself a couple bucks and don’t even bother with the little running wheel. It would do about as much good as that internet petition you just sent to those fifty people who like you a little bit less now.

I prefer to think that exercising is for the unimaginative. Here’s how I work out: I set the cookies in the dining room, and then watch TV on the couch in the living room. I pretend the cookies weigh two hundred pounds each, and that I can only carry one to the couch with me at a time. After a couple reps, I sit there on the couch and stare mournfully at the cookies in the other room, too lazy to stand all the way up for one more.

This little game pits my gluttony and my sloth squarely against each other; I’m always curious to see which one will win. I inevitably can’t help but feel bad for the loser, though, so I just bring the whole plate into the living room and we have ourselves some cookies.

Sometimes at work, I catch myself thinking, “Hey, if I get up and take a little stroll, that’ll help keep me in shape.” Then I realize that if the only exercise I get is walking around the hallways at work, after a while, I’ll probably look like a guy who’s only exercise is walking around the hallways at work.

If I really cared to learn about healthy living, I’d have picked up some reading material from Amy’s bookshelves; they were packed with titles like “Eight Easy Exercises that Nobody has Ever Actually Done, Except Maybe Amy.” Kara flipped through one of those books and found this interesting tidbit: healthy people should eat six meals per day. There was no mention of whether or not these meals should be super-sized, but for only forty cents extra, I’ve been playing it safe.

Anyway, from Amy’s apartment in the city, you can see a long way out. At the beginning of our visit, she pointed to a hill far off in the distance and said, “I jog to the top of that every day. Do you guys want to join me?”

We both respectfully declined. Had Amy needed something out of the top cupboard, I would have been glad to help her out. When you drive, the world rides with you. When you jog, you jog alone.



    Twenty more funny posts like this one, of course.....

  2. Your blog is always a pleasure to read, and this is another fantastic entry. You always crack me up!

  3. Now that there's a new Pope, I think we could all stand for a little more exorcizing, just to welcome the guy. Besides, I'm sure you know plenty of coworkers who could use a good exorcism. Who wants to have demons around all the time anyway? Spitting pea soup all over the place, heads spinning around, throwing priests around. Bah! Nobody wants that. Just the other day, I was saying to my friend Martha, "Martha - you know what we need around here? A few more..." (Huh? What? You mean like running and shit? You sure?) Nevermind.

  4. Glad you dropped by, y'all. Thanks for slapping some comments down between reps.

  5. Oh, "exercise". The only other words that get me as riled up are "that's retarded" and "literally" in any context.
    Lucky for me that I'm one of those people exercisers hate-- metabolically-gifted.
    Since you asked, 30 is bringing out the b***h in me, Mike.