Prologue
This calculated risk depends utterly on my behaving well under duress, so I don't like my chances.
I have decided to take tap dancing lessons.
Pushing 50, and 50 pounds overweight, I am borderline diabetic. My doctor has told me that if I don't exercise regularly, I can count on a daily regimen of pills, and a shortened lifespan.
The problem is, I've never found a sport I enjoyed participating in. I don't even like sports in my video games. Bowling? I have tendinitis in my wrist. Jogging? Painful in my shins and broken-down arches. Weight lifting? Oh great, excruciating boredom combined with a chance to emulate the people who beat me up in gym class. Softball? No team wants a fat guy who can't hit, field, or run.
No, my friend, I am no athlete. I do not live in my body. I live in my mind. Through the twin holes in its reinforced container, my mind views the world from a safe distance. My heros are the elderly balconeers, Statler and Waldorf, who view the Muppets from above. They sing:
My physical goals are so modest that I am proud of the fact that one year after buying the bike, I am still riding it at least three times a week, 45 minutes at a time. Turns out exercise makes you hungry -- who knew? So I have lost no weight in a year. I am also bored out of my mind. I need some variety.
Ergo: I will become the world's grimmest tap dancer.
My plan is to blog after each of my weekly classes, from September 2004 until the Spring recital in June, 2005. I have taken two tap dance classes so far, so I'm trying to get this blog caught up. After that, count on a new episode each Tuesday morning. I am fat, bald, clumsy, and there will be full-length mirrors involved, not to mention onlookers. If you revel in the misfortune of others, well, join me as the Good Ship Self-Preservation teeters precariously on the shoals of total societal humiliation.
I have decided to take tap dancing lessons.
Pushing 50, and 50 pounds overweight, I am borderline diabetic. My doctor has told me that if I don't exercise regularly, I can count on a daily regimen of pills, and a shortened lifespan.
The problem is, I've never found a sport I enjoyed participating in. I don't even like sports in my video games. Bowling? I have tendinitis in my wrist. Jogging? Painful in my shins and broken-down arches. Weight lifting? Oh great, excruciating boredom combined with a chance to emulate the people who beat me up in gym class. Softball? No team wants a fat guy who can't hit, field, or run.
No, my friend, I am no athlete. I do not live in my body. I live in my mind. Through the twin holes in its reinforced container, my mind views the world from a safe distance. My heros are the elderly balconeers, Statler and Waldorf, who view the Muppets from above. They sing:
Why do we always come here?My sentiments exactly. Melancholic and sedate by nature, I'm perfectly suited to my desk job as a writer for an Internet security firm. But my doctor's dire warnings forced me to spring into action. In my case the "springing" consisted of rolling my bulk off the couch with great effort, hoisting myself upright with groaning and kneebones cracking, and purchasing a stationery bike. See? There is a way to exercise while simultaneously playing Super Mario Sunshine!
I guess we'll never know.
It's like a form of torture
To have to watch the show!
My physical goals are so modest that I am proud of the fact that one year after buying the bike, I am still riding it at least three times a week, 45 minutes at a time. Turns out exercise makes you hungry -- who knew? So I have lost no weight in a year. I am also bored out of my mind. I need some variety.
Ergo: I will become the world's grimmest tap dancer.
My plan is to blog after each of my weekly classes, from September 2004 until the Spring recital in June, 2005. I have taken two tap dance classes so far, so I'm trying to get this blog caught up. After that, count on a new episode each Tuesday morning. I am fat, bald, clumsy, and there will be full-length mirrors involved, not to mention onlookers. If you revel in the misfortune of others, well, join me as the Good Ship Self-Preservation teeters precariously on the shoals of total societal humiliation.
posted by ScottPinzonTest at 1:32 PM
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