Thursday, July 11, 2013

I give up. I’m waving the white flag–or the green flag, as it were, because green is the color of vegetables. Salads, to be more specific, which I loathe. Indeed, the dining spectacle that incenses me most is the sight of a salad in a burger joint. You’ve likely beheld this before. It’s perverse, you know? It’s, like, why would you even order that here? Were you on your way to a cabbage patch, perhaps, when you took a wrong turn and decided to camp in this house of flesh?

There’s reason I’m working more of these–of these things into my weekly diet. I’ve been clocking some serious tennis time for a few months now, in my best approximation of a healthy lifestyle, as I drag my carcass regularly to the outdoors and shuffle to the mysterious undulations of athletic activity. I’ve played on temperate mornings, high noons under a harsh sun, and gloomy dusks with the distant roar of thunder. I’ve felt like a pauper on the court at times, and at other times–most times, I’d like to think–I am king.

But I am no lighter than I was in my sedentary lifestyle, which confounds me to no end. This is me, trying to reconcile with the reality of metabolism in my 30s. Exercise alone will not suffice. Diet must be regulated, too. Instituting a no-fry zone isn’t enough. I must also seek out “garden-fresh salads” on my own volition. How does one even order croutons–what I previously referred to as tainted bread–let alone look forward to them?