Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Setups may look convenient, even inviting on the surface, but beneath the gloss beats a cold truth: if the first date takes a wrong turn, goes south, it’s not just you, but the very architects of the setup who are culpable. The collateral damage here seems too great. When King Calm and Lady Cheerington described, in broad strokes, the person they had in mind, I was certainly intrigued. The facts, they said, were these: she’s in a band, has highlights, works as a barista on the side, is Caucasian, and–this would make one of us–likes Asians.

If only I had met her on my own accord, a month or so down the road. I say this because, suspect nature of setups aside, there are two things I must address before I put myself out there. I know what I need to do, obviously. But were I dropped into the market, say, right this minute, there would promptly be a product recall. The first order of business is to get back into shape. I don’t think is an unreasonable request, like asking for a pony, then asking the pony itself to assist me in exercise. And the second order of business? Well, you’ll just have to return here on Thursday, won’t you?

On the subject of health, I logged a solid four hours of tennis this weekend. The physical improvement is there, and there comes a point when it’s easier to ignore a cheesesteak for fear of scuttling your progress. The work is far from complete, however, at halfway from my target weight, or another two-thirds to go until I achieve the mystical “college weight.” But it is work I gladly do.

The company health screen today told a wretched story, where the fruits of my traditional aversion to sunlight and general movement came to bear. There were numbers, high numbers, and talk of pre-hypertension, followed by admonishments delivered by flabby people clutching medical apparatuses. It was like a parable in the making. But my final assessment score was real enough: 78. That’s a C+, which, contrary to academic custom, wasn’t helped at all by office hours.