... . The Shape of Things

Everything in the whole damned world requires effort. I mean EVERYTHING! This is not good for those of us much nearer a mature 50 than a sprightly 21, those of us currently infinitely more content to find stimulation from cerebral pursuits than feats of pubescent physicality, ....those of us who some might describe as lazy.

Fuck those perfectly sculpted and perpetually youthful, brain-dead muscle geeks, anyway (yes, we'd like to)!

There comes a time, however, when the unyielding constraints of one's familiar and dear old wardrobe, and a disinclination (or fiscal inability) to obtain a new one of more ample measurements require and demand efforts of a physical nature to alleviate these uncomfortable conditions. As befits the ever-increasingly apparent oxymoronic "human condition," we are faced with the stark and frightening realization that we must make ourselves extremely uncomfortable in order to become more comfortable.

The realization comes to different folks in different ways. For me it occurred about the time I started necessarily rolling off the sofa instead of standing straight up. The fact that I practically needed a come-along to button my pants and that my cheeks were beginning to obscure my view of my ears in the mirror were also helpful hints.

In the face of these appalling developments, I vowed to take drastic and penal measures. With the sacrosanct exception of alcoholic beverages, henceforth nothing but water would pass my lips to drink. Butter was castigated as persona non grata in favor of the reputedly more benign olive oil, and late night orgiastic consumption of chocolates of every conceivable stripe would be substituted by a few nibbled raisins and a dried apricot.

In addition to these spartan dietary restrictions, I would embark on an exercise regimen of daily jogging, starting slowly, but regularly pushing the envelope as to speed and distance.

The little lady is forever urging me to go to the gym to "work out," but who really needs treadmills and stairmasters? Go and walk down the street or climb the stairs right in your frigging house! Besides, I think there are more than enough fat ugly people sweating on useless machines in gyms already.

The dietary restrictions of my brave new program are not exactly easy for me, yet they are infinitely less difficult than the quotidian war waged between my spiritual and mental goals, and the stubborn inertia of my fat ass and bloated gut. In all fairness, the ambulatory exertion itself is not the most difficult component of the jogging, but the seriously curtailed ability of my lungs to feed my blood and limbs sustaining oxygen. Certainly, decades of compulsive and lusty consumption of various and sundry smoking materials, not to mention a drunken accident shattering multiple ribs and puncturing said lungs, could not possibly be contributing factors in their diminished performance.

Let's call it ten days since zero-hour, the inception of the big program. On the feeding front, only once in those ten days have I run amok, snapping uncontrollably and consuming in mere seconds 3/4 of a half pound box of Jr. Mints the little lady carelessly left in plain view on the coffee table.

On the jogging front, my lungs still feel like they are violently exploding when I reach the threshold of my daily limit, a paltry quarter mile currently. In fact, yesterday, while briskly striding home on the return leg, I coughed so hard I actually shit myself....twice! Needless to say, I have necessarily eschewed cigarettes of the conventional tobacco variety, but refraining from all smoking entirely remains unachieved–––and undesired, as well (hey, whaddaya wanna do, live forever, or what?).

Every day, I force myself to plod a few steps further. At this point, the benefit of the post-jog euphoria is still more of a mental relief and satisfaction than any measurable physical progress I may feel, though that sensation, too, is slowly making an appearance.

I think buttoning my pants has become ever so slightly less strenuous, and I can bend over and tie my shoes now without huffing and puffing like some wretched old asthmatic octogenarian. I've already saved a fortune in soda, chocolate, and butter, too.

Funny how something so bad can be so good, isn't it? Maybe life's just one big oxymoron.

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The Shape of Things

3-12-2001