Disrobing in front of a full-length mirror is like
slowing down at the scene of an accident. No matter how hideous it is… you just
have to look. -K.G.
It’s one in the afternoon, 89
degrees outside, I just finished a six-and-a-half mile run over the rolling hills
of Fullerton, California, and I’m sweating like a gray-haired pig in a sauna.
Crazy you say. I would give you a high-five if I could catch my breath long
enough.
I absolutely hate exercising.
There, I said it. It sucks bugs. I would be much happier laying on the couch in
my Sponge Bob undies with a tub of Rocky Road balanced on my stomach and a
slightly stale (like ‘em with a little snap) box of Red Vines clutched between
my chubby little fingers while binge watching Project Runway.
Why do I torture myself, you
ask? After all, Walmart sells clothes in larger sizes and black compression socks
are kinda in. I often ask myself this same question. It’s all vanity. There. I said
it again. I plan to be buried in a pair of skinny jeans and a slim-fit V-neck
tee. If you don’t see my feet, know that I’ll be rockin’ some righteous Chucks
when I hit the pearly gates.
I’ve been reading about a new
pill that tricks your muscles into thinking they just worked out; burns fat
without leaving the couch. Can I get an Amen for that? And if you exercise
while taking these miracle pills the effect is amplified. So if you go to the
fridge for a beer, and to the bathroom say, twice an hour, before you know it
you’d look like that guy with the abs who’s shacking up with Sophia Vergara.
Science is so much fun. Way
more fun than exercising. I assume cloned new bodies won’t be far off. Think I’ll
stretch out on the sofa with a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Boom Chocolatta and
watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
K.G.
