Friday, June 2, 2006

Every morning, in a check against the dining wiles of the Norshore, I turn to my scale for a straight answer. Tell me 156 and I’m content, secure in the knowledge I can go about my day without pretending to “exercise,” a word which here means running around in circles as if I were a ricksha, never mind a driver. Anything more than 156 means this pile of off-white plastic and circuitry becomes a corrective, a digital entreaty to stop hitting the Nutella and start eating healthily. Go under 156 and I’ve essentially won the physical lottery.

Why? Because working out, arguably the path to winning the lottery consistently, is not my thing. Sports can be fun, propelled by a love of the game or an unquenchable drive to crush the opposition, but dripping over an elliptical machine is an entirely different axis, namely the what in hell’s sweet gravy axis. There have been forces trying to shift my framework recently, however, feebly and persistently.

A new health club moved into town a few weeks ago, and with it a legion of vacuous workers handing out flyers. These poor schlubs have perfected the art, employing such devious tactics as sidling up to you, playing the concerned stranger, and asking the million dollar question: “Would you like to work out?” The short answer is they’re trying a little too hard. Then there’s the fun answer.

“No, you fucking meathead. I want to grow as fat as possible until such a day when I will require you to roll me down the street into your goddamn health club.”

Here’s the polite answer.

“No, not particularly.”

Perhaps there’s a syllabic overload–a syllaload, if I may–inherent in this answer, because damned if I haven’t gotten some confused looks and compelling replies from these chucklenuts.

“But everyone should work out!” is my favorite.

The problem with the question is the implication that you need to work out, the means to which may be discovered–guess!–within those newly opened doors. That’s the best-case scenario, where feelings of inadequacy are ignited and a new membership purchased. You know what I noticed, though? A rep never, ever approaches a fat person, probably for fear of receiving a swift kick to the Peter. This is why I time my sidewalk crossings just right, with the right people, so I may spend my lunch hour unmolested. Brilliant, don’t you think? I’m expecting a call from Mensa any moment, in fact.