Thursday, August 12, 2010

Based on my current health trajectory, I imagine I’m headed for two possible outcomes: dead before I hit 30 or, and we’re talking best-case scenario here, my entire frame will adapt itself into a carnival of 90-degree angles, trunk locked in sitting position, forearms perpetually dangling at the precise altitudes needed for a keyboard-mouse setup, skin able to photosynthesize fluorescent light. This state of affairs is nobody’s fault but my own, really, because I’ve committed to a corporate life, and at this point I don’t think fireman or park ranger are even on the table anymore.

A gym membership’s not going to cut it either, according to “recent studies,” which in scientific parlance surmise we’re fucked. Sidebar, you ever wonder who conducts these recent studies? I always picture a couple assholes in white lab coats puffing on pipes, but that’s neither here nor there. Something’s wrong, and you don’t even need to read the article–just look at the picture of the woman on a treadmill. Sitting or standing, walking or balling, there’s a positively wretched undertone to the photo, and it’s, like, how did we ever get from hunting and gathering to this?

I’m going to assume that sitting will be unavoidable for the foreseeable future. This leaves the usual considerations for healthy living, such as sleep, eating well, and exercise. I’ve been good about getting at least seven hours recently, and energy level’s been high. Food front needs work, though. Lunch is catered daily now, meaning I only need to walk a few feet to collect my grub before returning to my desk. Certainly there’s money to be saved here, but the lack of motion means I’ll need to be extra cautious. Yesterday, for example, I ordered a relatively healthy chicken salad sandwich and fries, which simply isn’t sustainable.

I need to be better. There were no fries today, so there’s that. But with exercise, it’s not a question of being better so much as just starting. It’s going to be cooler this Saturday, and I’ve got to capitalize on this. Already, I can feel my thoughts wending to a dark place: Nine irons, wrought by mortal men, the instruments of rituals most foul.