Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Office Rump is the defining plague of our time, a sickness whose spread is matched only by its pure insidiousness and relentless nature. You think you’re exerting yourself eight, nine, ten hours a day, and while the grind may, in fact, be giving your brain a real workout, your ass is rooted firmly to your chair. I fully expect to fuse with my seat one day–the human tailbone, it turns out, isn’t vestigial so much as a connector–and the prospect isn’t entirely bad, because then I wouldn’t have to walk at all.

But this won’t happen anytime soon, courtesy of a bet I made with a work buddy. The challenge: decrease body mass by 10%, come August 31, or cough up twenty-five dollars and suffer shame eternal. The first few days have been productive, with our nation’s independence commemorated with tons of tennis in humid weather, but as sure as our forefathers once wore stockings and wigs in a dignified manner, so too has laziness reared its inevitable head.

I must not lose the bet, though, and to this end I’ve woven a plan involving strategic parking and tilapia filets. That’s all I can tell you for now. Coming up next: the secret to completing any self-betterment plan! Stay tuned for tomorrow, or perhaps next month.