I am falling apart. My body is crumbling into nothing more than a pile of human dust. Granted, it is ruggedly handsome human dust, but human dust nonetheless. What is to blame for this human disintegration?
Why, of course it would be my attempts at health.
Months ago, I decided to get into shape. I don’t know what brought it on, honestly. Maybe I decided I didn’t like the way I felt. Maybe it was the fact that every time I called People Magazine to submit my name for “Sexiest Man Alive,” they would abruptly and quite rudely hang up on me.
No matter the reason, I did it. I exercised and ate healthy and soon I had lost the weight of a small child or, if you would prefer, a very large ham. Or, for that matter, an incredibly small child holding a moderately sized ham. Really, there are dozens of ham/child combinations to compare my weight loss to. I had become a fraction of the person I previously was.
According to everyone in the world, this should make me feel good. People will spout off things like “I bet you feel like you have more energy.” Well, I do not. I do not feel good at all. In fact, I feel tired and, quite frankly, a bit sore. I have spent the better part of the day walking like an old man desperately in need of a hip transplant because apparently running is a thing healthy people are supposed to do.
Yes, now I am obligated to exercise and eat healthy every day. If I don’t, the last few months of work will be all for naught. I will have to replace my new clothing with much bigger and less flattering clothing. It has become a daily torture that I must endure.
To make things even worse, apparently all healthy people want to do is discuss being healthy. As I am now forced into the group, I must endure this daily. The other day, a girl I know was talking about her new workout regimen.
“I just feel so great!” she declared with the gusto that people who love to workout often have. She looked towards me for reassurance that this is the proper emotion. I just scoffed, shook my head, then slowly limped away. Another coworker decided to suggest a new workout for me. It’s called “Insanity.” Apparently he missed the memo that I refuse to do any sort of physical activity that implies the user must be mentally ill to participate. If it was called “Sane and Fairly Realistic,” then I might give it a shot.
Then there is the food. All I have wanted for the last few months is pizza. I want a pizza so badly that if I were to find a magical wish granting genie, I would blow through all of my wishes by asking for some Papa John’s.
“No, but you can make the crust out of cauliflower,” someone told me. Then they proceeded to tell me how it was an okay substitute for an actual pizza. I feel incredibly certain that if I were to eat this magical cauliflower crust pizza, the only result would be me still wanting pizza and me despising the person who suggested this as a substitute. There is a reason pizza crust is made the way it is. That would be because it is delicious. Cauliflower is decidedly not delicious.
While we’re at it, I would like to set a ground rule. If you have something interesting to tell me about healthy foods and that interesting thing is a way to prepare quinoa, you are now no longer to be in my presence. If I wanted to eat something that was the texture of very dry soil, I would just go dig up my backyard. It would be a lot cheaper than quinoa and I wouldn’t be forced into a trip to Whole Foods for whatever bizarre ingredient is used to soup up a dreary pile of whole grains.
Maybe I should just give up and drift into a joyous sea of pizza and TV until the day that my body, filled with saturated fats and cholesterol, cries “uncle.” Sure, my life would be much shorter, but imagine how happy I would be with greasy cheese all over my dopey pizza-infused grin.
Besides, apparently my body is going to fall apart either way. I’m pretty sure I would rather it was pizza that killed me than a treadmill.