A few months ago I wrote about my desire to be less people. If you recall, the Christmas weight gain had raised questions towards the structural support afforded by my floorboards, and as a means of avoiding costly building work, I decided to slim down.
However, Easter started in January, and in that early celebration of our Lord’s resurrection, my Mini Egg eating had managed to reach startling heights of excess – that’s how efficient I was at being subservient to God!
So a few nights ago, whilst sitting on the sofa with my wife, I couldn’t help notice how she was slowly moving towards me. At first I thought she was shuffling closer by design, perhaps to instigate a little fooling around! But she started to fight against the movement – she was clawing at the cushions in the hope of stopping this unintentional display of affection.
Trying to understand the phenomenon, we both reached a worrying conclusion – I had developed my own gravitational field! People getting too close to my planetoid’esque stomach were unwittingly dragged into its orbit and consumed.
I needed to lose weight.
Dieting alone wouldn’t cut it; I needed to take some exercise. Time to get the cardiovascular system working independently, and without the need of a massive coffee kick-start each morning. It was time to maybe do a little jogging? I was scared.
So I spoke to few fit people at work, and asked what I needed.
“You need the right pair of running shoes. Something that will give a little bounce and is the right measurement.”
I kinda figured that one out for myself. In fact, I had already ordered a nice pair of trainers with bubbles in the soles – the marketing literature explained how the bubbles provided the wearer with improved shock resistance, better levels of endurance, and a healthy dose of concentrated pretentiousness.
I would also require the right kind of socks, something to let my feet breath. This sacred me again! I immediately had visions of “trench foot” and Victorian methods of amputation, administered by a fearsome local butcher who hates “bubble shoes”.
The list continued.
Good running shorts to avoid any chaffing to those areas that I certainly wouldn’t want amputated. An iPod, so I could listen to the kind of energetic music I would normally run away from regardless of the expensive trainers on my feet. A decent water bottle, to ensure I kept hydrated. If, like me, you consider exercise as a form of torture, shouldn’t self-administered water-boarding resolve the exercise/hydration issue in one fell swoop?
Whilst listening to these well-toned bastards, I calculated that my pursuit of a fitter body would be more demanding on my wallet, than on my hamstrings!
It went on like this for a while, and I soon became bored and started thinking of home… and the bag of Mini Eggs I had hidden behind a box of firelighters under the stairs.
I drove home that night already planning my excuses for not taking this stupid idea any further. Maybe this is my ideal weight, and tinkering with the system will only lead to more problems, like a disgruntled pizza man who has seen his profits disappear overnight and is now unable to take that family holiday. How could I knowingly cause such a horrible butterfly effect?
However, whilst getting out of the car and spying my shadow – one that seemingly belonged to a herd of Space Hoppers – I thought better of it all and had a little jog to my street door.
Paul Millard 2015