Why I Can’t Work Out

Lifting Weights

Inevitably, death will come for us all. It will shake us from this mortal coil and force us to give up the ghost. For some of us, we’re able to push his visit further down the line, but for others, such as myself, he hovers in the background. Death watches every beer drank, every pizza eaten whole. As a twenty-something, I know that it is now my turn to take care of myself- that my metabolism is slowing, like a dying dog, just looking to take one last nap.

But even though this is all rational and well and good, I can’t escape that I’m doomed to not be able to work out. I’m resigned to the fact that death will come calling.

Whenever I try to better myself through cardiovascular exercise and light strength training, a little voice pops into my head.

“Just give up, dickwad. You know you’re going to eventually.”

Then another voice comes in. “Come on Jerry, you know I’m just trying to better myself. Not everyone can have ripped, six-pack abs like you from light exercise.”

That’s Jerry, the bully part of my mind trying to beat up on the wimpier, more “into video games” part of my mind, Pete.

“Look at you, Pete. You’re slowly dying. Stop trying to delay the inevitable and just give in to your growing FUCA.”

“What’s a FUCA?”

“Duh, Pete. Fat Upper Crotch Area.”

“Oh. Well, that pizza does look pretty good.”

“Yeah, keep stuffing your face, fatty.”

Then another voice comes in and interrupts the exchange. “Jerry! What the hell are you doing? Leave Pete alone and get back to gym class. We all know he’s never going to make it up that rope so just leave it be!”

“But Mr. Oppenheimer, with a little help I could turn my life around. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet of people losing lots of weight in relatively short amounts of time! It just takes persistence.”

“No, no, Pete. Keep eating your pizza and don’t think too much about those motivated types. Maybe you can just write ‘funny’ articles on the Internet instead of going outside.”

“Okay, Mr. Oppenheimer. What about Dr. Oz? He said there’s a pill-”

That’s when both Jerry and Mr. Oppenheimer start laughing.

“Yeah, wash down those magic pills with a couple milkshakes!” Jerry says. Then he and Mr. Oppenheimer exchange a high five.

“That last slice of pizza does look pretty good…” Pete says.

And that’s why I’m unable to get out there and do those deep knee bends. Now I have to finish up this article because I think I just dripped pizza sauce into my keyboard and I need to lick it out.




B. Joseph Jackson

Author: B. Joseph Jackson

Professional Goober. Receive unwanted tweets from him @bripbrop.

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