24: You go jogging. (Part 2)

“This is it!” you say proudly. You are prepared this time. You have your sporty headband and wristbands, your spiffy running shoes, your snazzy jogging shorts, and your supportive sports bra.

“This will keep my masculine chest/female breasts well-supported!” you chuckle. “And my man-boobs/woman-boobs won’t jiggle uncomfortably!”

Not to mention nipple-chafing, I add helpfully. I have seen it to be a problem on sitcoms.

“Do you not have jogging experience?” you ask, admiring your sporty look in the mirror. People will surely be fooled by your attire to think that you are very athletic indeed. Perhaps you can just splash some water on your chest, back and underarms and people will think you’ve been exercising, and you can relax on a [curb/park bench/statue of a horse, sitting very still and then surprising people with sudden movement] for a long enough time that will fool me into thinking you’ve co-operated.

Silly you! You think you can trick me?! Jogging is your resolution!

“I resolve to quit!” you try. But you want to be healthy, don’t you?

“Yes,” you sigh. “But I want to be healthy with minimal effort and also not changing any of my dietary habits.”

HO, HO HO! Don’t we all! But you have to change everything, all the time. That is the way of your progress.

“Very well,” you say. “Let’s go.”

LET’S?! I said YOU have to change! I hug a bag of potato chips closer to me and wave goodbye.

“That’s not fair!” you pout.

Out of the bag I produce carrots.

“Oh,” you say.

“You are presumptuous,” I huff. You leave, and I chuckle and dig deeper under the carrots to eat some chips. They have become soggy from the carrot water. NO!

* *

To your disappointment it is not raining or snowing or hailing or a new form of precipitation that alternates flaming boulders and pastries, so you have no excuse not to trot down the street. You do trot, picking up pace, feeling pretty capable.

“I can do this!” you say aloud, scaring an elderly person walking by. “I can totally do this!”

Then you pull a muscle! You collapse to the ground, grasping your tender calves. “Ouch my calves!” you yell.

Having washed my hands and hidden the evidence of the chips, I trot out to help you. I reach out and pull a muscle in my arm.

“Ouch my calves!” I yell. 


We retreat to your abode and nurse our wounds.

“Next time we should stretch,” I suggest.

“Next time,” you repeat darkly, massaging your calves. If you survive to next time, of course. Exercising is proving surprisingly threatening to your health.

“No excuses!” I roar. I pull a jaw muscle. NO!

23: You gaze thoughtfully out a window.

You gaze thoughtfully out the window, watching the rain fall. In your hand is a glass of amber liquid.

“Hasn’t this been done?” I remark.

“What?” you reply.

“The ‘gaze-out-a-window-while-swilling-scotch’ shtick.”

“This is root beer diluted with water,” you explain. I stare at you. “Root beer is some pretty strong stuff by itself!” you express.

No… it isn’t.

You return your gaze to the window. There’s a raccoon out there, in the rain! Ho! Ho ho! Look how wet he is!

22: You go jogging. (Part I)

“I am going to be healthy!” you declare loudly. You drink lots of water (not bottled, of course!), eat lots of fruit and vegetables (organic, of course! You grew the carrots yourself!), you sneak in a sip of [soft drink=select=Coke] (I saw that! Damn it, that negates everything!) and a cigarette (are you serious?!) and squeeze into your jogging shorts.

“Hello, old enemy,” you say to the shorts, fingering the hem with an unfathomable expression. So much history. So much to learn about you.

“I hate exercise,” you explain. “It’s tiresome.”

Ahh. I understand. Sitting is much more comfortable.

“Don’t forget lying down,” you add wistfully.

That will be your reward later.

You lace up your running shoes, put on your game face (it is a contorted, concentrated expression you have when playing video games, or going to the bathroom), and throw the door wide open.

“Oh,” you say. “It’s raining.”

Chuckling, you strip off your shorts, grab some cake, and sit back down in front of the television.

“There’s a treadmill just over ther–” I start, but you cut me off, waving cake in front of my face.

“It’s raining,” you say definitively. “And Frasier reruns are on.”

I can’t argue with that. I join you in lethargy.

“Comfy, eh?” you say. You toss your headband to the floor in victory.