Woke up this morning, fed the cats, and got back in bed.
That was a few hours ago.
“Exercise can prevent depression,” says Scarlett, looking up from her magazine. She gets all her big ideas from Vogue and Self. “Only four hours of light or two hours of hard exercise a week, according to the Danish National Institute of Public Health. ”
“This isn’t Denmark” says Memphis Earlene, who thinks exercise was invented by Non-Bluish people with too much time on their hands.
“This isn’t news, ” I tell Scarlett. “Each issue of every single magazine aimed at women contains an article extolling the benefits of regular exercise. It’s really the same article, only with minor variations. ”
I’m feeling angry and I don’t know whether the anger is directed towards the Danish National Institute of Health or Scarlett. If you already suffer from lack of joy juice, two hours on a treadmill or exercise bike sounds more like punishment for the sin of insufficient gratitude at being alive.
Who does she think she is, my mother?
“I AM SICK TO DEATH OF EXERCISE NAZIS,” I tell her. “THERE IS A LIMIT TO THE AMOUNT OF TIME SPENT IN POINTLESS BORING ACTIVITIES THAT A DEPRESSED PERSON CAN STAND BEFORE SHE GETS EVEN MORE DEPRESSED AND STARTS BUYING THOSE BIG BAGS OF POTATO CHIPS AGAIN.”
Scarlett pays no attention to me, bless her heart. She’s got my i-pod and she’s looking for music that makes me dance.
Life is hard, and sometimes you need to be reminded of its many pleasures. Especially the non-fattening ones.
That’s my position on the exercise issue.