This is written for you, persistent reader. You, who would
fathom the Call to Exercise that Actually Works. You are still interested in
what more I might have to say on the subject of Motivation to Exercise. You are
more than curious about whether or not I was successful in saving my own life
through figuring out a way to motivate myself to get up and move, to exercise,
to avoid INACTIVITY.
It would not surprise you to find out that I did not, in
fact, ever discover a magical key which could induce me to commence activity
meant to prolong my life and sustain my health.
Yet, you read on anyway. Your font of hope overflows. Your
zest for life sustains your inquiry. You root for me to persist in my quest, to
conquer my demons. You are sure that I will soon say that, this very morning, I
got up out of bed and did ten jumping jacks before coffee.
I am not going to disappoint you, so I will lie, and tell you I got up out of bed this morning and did ten jumping jacks, before coffee.
Aackkk! What am I saying? No, I will not lie. I will never
lie to you, my gentle reader.
This morning I awoke a little later than usual, but
refreshed and aware of my aliveness. I felt healthy and happy and well rested.
I stretched out luxuriously and practiced Full Body Awareness, one muscle at a
time.
To my surprise, in between the curves of my lax left upper
arm muscles, I discovered a previously hidden agenda with my name on it. At the
top was a single word, "rhyme."
Immediately I wrote a haiku (a three-line poem of seventeen
syllables which does not rhyme):
Evil
Creator of the Couch Potato
Doctor
Faustus
inventor of
the sofa
murdered
ten million
I do not know who precisely invented the concept of the Comfortable
Seat, but, in either literary or religous works, evil incarnate in one form may
serve as metaphor for another.
It is likely many more than ten million people have been
lured to soft couches and recliner chairs and, there reposed, were put to sleep
by television sitcoms, chips, beer, and the feeling of easiness that comes from
having, within crawling distance, a kitchen whose cabinets overflow with boxes
of sugared cereal and whose refrigerator spills out gallons of milk and cool,
caffeinated beverages on demand.
Ice cream, close at hand, is not your friend.
Doctor Faustus, god of INACTIVITY, we worship you for caring
enough about our human desire for creature comforts that you went ahead and
created them for us.
We, who choose to indulge, salute you.