Saturday, March 8, 2014

In a delicious foil to my weekday morning routine, where I sweat shoulder to shoulder with fellow Texans, I’m completely sedentary at Snug now, sitting side-by-side with friendly strangers, driven by the singular goal of consuming, rather than burning, an embarrassment of calories. This seating configuration is new, and I’m fully aware of its purpose: to foster spontaneous conversation and the meeting of new friends. This is precisely why I’m hunched over my laptop in detached silence, hissing at any who would dare approach my pimento-and-sausage sandwich, as I toil to bring you the very best in web content.

Metabolism in your 30s just fucking sucks. This is fact, and I’ve mentioned this before. Gone are the days when I can slim down simply by thinking and wanting it. Now, results call for effort. A lot of effort. In the mere turn of a few years, the default state of my body has transformed into a kind of Hoarders for calories. It boggles the mind, frankly. It’s, like, “Easy there, buddy! You’re not a bear, nor is winter approaching. It’s fine to let go.” Doesn’t matter how many times I say this, though, because the ear parts of my body clearly aren’t working, and it insists on doing the exact opposite.

Gruntilda didn’t show up at the fitness center on Friday, but in his place were four other bodies. Two guys were some flavor of bro, and I could’ve sworn they were either jogging sideways or possibly backwards on the treadmill. I was envious of the level of physicality, of course. That wasn’t the case for the other two people, who were mainly talking and watching teevee. Normally you see a spike of attendance in January, for instance, when the public at large resolves to not be fat. You see a similar phenomenon on tennis courts, too, around Wimbledon and the U.S. Open, when locals try to channel Nadal.

I’m fully aware that complete silence in a shared space like this is an unreasonable expectation, so I regard noisier days as chances to hone my focus. I find myself looking out the window at a flock of ducks who land in the pool, right around 7:40 AM, like clockwork. There’s something inspiring about their presence. Ducks don’t give a shit about schedules or health regimens or Outlook. They’re guided by instinct, and I’m trying to take a page from their book. When second thoughts about the elliptical invariably hit around the 1.30-mile mark, they are my refrain. Feathered kin! I know not why we come here, same time every day–only that we must.