There’s only one way to explain what happened back in February, during my festival of oatmeal, and it’s temporary insanity. The idea, best as I can recall, was to resolve the issue of breakfast for a whole year in one fell swoop, a harebrained plot that resulted in cramming 960 packets of Quaker’s finest into my pantry. I’m down to precisely 716 packets now, having just prepared a hearty bowl of Apples & Cinnamon to accompany tonight’s post, and clearly I’m behind.
I don’t know why I persist. Perhaps it’s an unspoken commitment I’m honoring, a secret covenant I’ve established with oats. Maybe part of me believes this is all in service of some wretched, Dickensian narrative I’m spinning, where porridge is a necessary prop. But that would be disingenuous because, let’s face it, I’m living in yuppie central here. All I can tell you is I likely won’t be repeating this buying pattern anytime soon, and there are mornings when my thoughts stray to other staples, like toast. Toast! And eggs. Bacon, even.
A head cold is imminent–I can feel it knocking on the door–so let’s adjourn for the evening. The main purpose of tonight, I suppose, was to tell you I’m having Apples & Cinnamon, an exotic flavor I plucked from the “Variety Pack.” Usually my routine consists of Maple & Brown Sugar, so this choice should speak to my ability to spice it up or, more appropriately, Cinnamon & Spice it up, which was yesterday.
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.
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, August 12.