I am an American, and a proud one at that.

If our great nation is famous for anything, it’s for housing
aggressive, ignorant, self-righteous, trigger-happy people who elect
leaders with appropriately similar features.

We’re also fat.

I may not be that fat, but I treat my body like garbage nonetheless.
My muscles get sore just from eating.

But it’s so easy to be lazy and out of shape — to think, it used to
be a sign of wealth.

I’m convinced that if I had a time machine, I’d get major street
credit in the olden days for being a chubby, pasty guy with soft hands.
That’s my dream and no one can take that from me.

As I mentioned two paragraphs ago, I’m not dangerously out of shape.
I’m a “fat skinny guy,” meaning that I’m sickly and weak, but without
the advantage of portly joviality (fat equals happy) or hipster charm
(hipster chicks dig the lanky dudes).

Regardless, eating and storing processed carbohydrates within me is
taking its toll on my flabby shell. I started working out this week.

Pretty soon, I’ll be a whole new man with washboard abs (literally,
I hope), rippling biceps and active listening skills.

You can probably tell just by looking at me, but I have never
enjoyed working out. I’ve tried to get into shape in the past, but to
no avail.

I used to think working out was constructive masochism — the way
that I did it, it was, except I didn’t like it and it wasn’t
constructive.

So I guess I was just hurting myself, right?

My attitude is shifting.

My two most recent ex-girlfriends (it was mutual) were both all
about physical well-being. I stayed out of shape just to spite them,
because I believe fighting is an indication of a strong relationship. I
now see the error of my ways (but neither of them will take me back).

Maybe it’s my philosophy of mind that lets me ignore my body’s plea
for health. The fact that I believe the mind exists and the world of
forms is an illusion gives me a nice peace of mind.

As good of a cop-out as metaphysics and ontology are, I’m sick of
getting winded by checking my e-mail.

Maybe I’ve seen too many Cronenberg films, but I think the concept
of working out is certification of the inadequacy of the human body’s
ability to cope with the ever-rampant onslaught of modern technology.

That being said, I still need to do it for the ladies (they deserve
it) and, most importantly, for myself. But mostly for the ladies.

I’m giving you, being the lovely person you are, an assignment — if
you see me on campus, throw me a negative reinforcement. Negative
reinforcement, studies have shown, is much more interesting than its
counterpart.

Some names you can call me include “fatty,” “fatty bo-batty,”
“thunder thighs,” “hula hips” and “senator.”

Thank you in advance.

Paul Isakson can be reached at pisakson@cm-life.com.

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