“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!