Got muscle memory? I do. But not in the way that you might think. See, I’ve been going to the gym every day for the past month, and the changes my body has undergone are nothing short of astonishing. Like, Jeff-Goldblum-in-that-science-fiction-movie-astonishing. You know, the one where he transforms: Jurassic Park (he got super buff for that movie). For example, before coming to the gym, my body thought you had to wear clothing designed for humans and/or something other than socks while using shared equipment. My body also never knew that eating on the treadmill was even possible, or that a very effective workout for many, many people involves super-setting five minutes of cycling on the recumbent bike with 55 minutes of leaning on the reception desk and talking about deflated footballs. But the most amazing thing that has happened to my body, I think, is how it knows I need to go to the bathroom the second I climb onto the only unoccupied treadmill in the entire facility. The human body is a miracle.
I’m in prison. Sure, it’s minimum security, has no rules or restrictions, and is made of my own hair, but it’s still prison! That’s right: I’m in bad haircut prison. Now, for those of you currently thinking I’m making a mountain out of a mole hair, and that I should just go get it fixed, there’s something I need to tell you. But before I tell you, will you promise that you won’t make fun of me? It’s a deeply personal issue that I have been struggling with for months, and I’m only now beginning to gather the strength to talk about it. Here goes. I have… BaBy-D. Shocked? Well, how do you think I felt when I first found out? No I did not feel hungry! How could you be so insensitive? I mean, OK, yes, I did feel a little bit hungry, but I also felt scared! And confused! What’s that? You don’t know what BaBy-D is? Oh. Well, basically, it’s a disorder that prevents you from getting anything done, on account of you having a baby. It affects millions of new parents worldwide, and, sadly, there is no cure. Sure, you learn to live with it, but it’s an adjustment. For example, last night I ate my dinner in four parts, like a Showtime mini-series. And it’s taking me so long to get through Memoirs of a Geisha that I’m starting to feel like I’m reading Chiyo’s life story in real-time. As for haircuts, the only thing I seem to have time for is walking-in to a salon and paying the jumpy trainee who sweeps up the hair to trim my mop with child-proofed craft scissors. I think I’ll be an eight-year-old boy for Halloween.
I’m doing a marathon. No, I’m not talking about the three seasons of Friday Night Lights Wife and I have been watching back-to-back-to-back since last week, or the bi-annual marathon, that I invented, which consists of not flossing every day between teeth cleanings, even though I promised my hygienist I would (it’s not entirely my fault: the dentist comes in after the hygienist has just finished lecturing me on the importance of flossing and tells me I have gorgeous teeth and to keep up the fabulous work, causing me to ignore the hygienist’s admonishments like some devious teenager who knows which parent will let me stay out all night). Actually, I am literally running the Los Angeles marathon. Although I am writing this three years after the fact, so you’ll just have to imagine me jogging down Santa Monica Boulevard, balancing a laptop on my left hand and typing with my right. Sure, it’s the coldest day on record, and I’m just on the precipice of freezing-rain-induced hypothermia, but I am having the time of my life! Did you know that you can litter as much as want when you run a marathon? It’s true! People hand you paper cups and plastic bottles and you can throw them on the ground, in plain view of law enforcement, and not get in trouble. In fact, people CHEER when you do this. How great is that? The only way running this marathon could be more fun is if I wasn’t suffering from debilitating joint pain. Quick! Somebody give me some trash to throw on the ground!
I’m finally cool. After years of ho-ho dieting, I’ve gotten back down to my college weight, and I’ve never felt cooler. Literally. As in, I’m freezing. This morning, my hands turned blue, and I had to put on a down jacket and sip a boiling cup of tea to stop from shivering. Why wasn’t I told about this? Are thin people part of a massive conspiracy to hide how freaking cold they are all the time so they can hoard the world’s supply of cashmere? Now I know why the contestants on The Biggest Loser gain all their weight back: they’re trying to warm up! In fact, the more I think about it, the more it all makes sense. Thin people often have cold personalities, while thick folks (as a former butterball, I find the f-word demeaning and insensitive) are known for being warm and jolly. Those who are skinny do hot yoga, while those who are stout do frozen yo-gurt. Turtlenecks are the fashion of choice for slender socialites, while plus-sizers seem to feel most comfortable in speedos (seriously, I have never seen a thin person wearing a speedo). I could go on, but I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingers. Does anyone have a space-heater I could borrow? I would also take an extra large meat-lover’s pizza.
I’m callin’ it now. Winter is cancelled until further notice. After spending all day shoveling a seemingly endless supply of snow in freezing cold temperatures, I have decided to publicly denounce my wintry faith and heretofore refuse to acknowledge the presence of Dog, the wise old husky who prowls our neighborhood this time of year, and once saved me from a frozen well. From now on, I’m going to scrape my windshield wearing nothing but swim trunks, a Hawaiian shirt, and a snorkel mask. Instead of hearty stews and casseroles, I’m going to be chowing down on cold pasta salad and popsicles out on our patio. Sure, all the furniture is buried under a mountain of crap in our garage, but what our patio lacks in seating it makes up for in wind chill. And if I feel like throwing on some short-shorts and going for a leisurely sunset jog through the woods, who’s going to stop me (other than the four feet of snow I will have to wade through)? They say that denial is also a river in Egypt, and, last I checked, Egypt is hot. Ipso de facto, I am now officially an Egyptian. Do you think I need to let Human Resources know I’ve changed nationalities?