I’m sitting here this morning mulling over many things: the death of Osama bin Laden, the Royal wedding, the White House Correspondents Dinner, the ass-smacking of Donald Trump, how Boston got worked by the Miami Heat, how the Caps got screwed and all of the work sitting before me. I’ve got a ton of project work to do and my desire to do it as soon as I woke up was pretty minimal. My house is still a wreck as the kitchen remodel has still taken it’s toll on the rest of the house. After Angela left for a trip to Detroit for work I was supposed to take that as my cue to slap on my trainers, get on my work out gear, grab my heavy bag gloves and drag my carcass to the gym.
Today was the day that I would start my new workout regimen. As my professional career has changed I thought it best to change even more of my life. What better way to do this than to strap up and head out and get my butt in shape?
All three of my dogs were sleeping at my feet.
The hum from my computers and hard drives became hypnotic as my motivation to hit the gym ebbed. The cacophony of computer equipment and dog snoring seemed to call to me:
“Michael…Miiiiiichael. Do it. You know you want it. Do it. Doooooooooooo it.”
So I did it. I nuked two corn dogs, kept the television news on in the background and sat at my desk reading. I know, I know. Saying ‘I’ll go to the gym tomorrow’ is a recipe for disaster. Think of it this way: maybe the rest of my body won’t be in spectacular shape but with the amount of typing that I do I’m bound to have pretty muscular and fit fingers. Ideal for pointing. Most likely at my heart as I fall over from a heart attack.
So, sure, maybe I won’t be a role model to youngsters. I’ll probably be more or a ‘roll model’.