Hey, I used to be physically active. Now I know better.
One of the “older-and-wiser” benefits of geezerhood is the knowledge that twelve hours of moderate physical activity will not protect your waistline from one evil brownie. Thing is, I don’t know why all of that youthful burning of calories couldn’t be banked, then used in mid-life when you really need to bust a few couch calories.
Back in my youth our physical education instructor believed that gym class should have all the tender moments of Marine Corps basic training…condensed into one hour per day. Thanks to “Ol’ Coach” I learned that sweating, panting, wheezing, cramping, and leaking out of my orifices meant I was really exercising. “Holy snot rockets, did I learn.” I learned to hate anything that remotely resembled forced torture in the name of healthy living. I learned to hate exercising so much that my skill at avoiding exercise took on epic proportions of effectiveness for the rest of my life.
So now I am retired. I spend most of my days in the sweet solitude of my recliner or in front of my computer. My calorie burning consists of groaning and farting my way to a standing position. Then I take short but intense walks to the kitchen where I silence those whispering calories hiding in the fridge by swallowing the ring-leaders. Satisfied that I have subdued evil temptations once again, I return to my recliner to recover. Then, with one impressive, gravity-assisted deep knee bend I heave a sigh of relief and congratulate myself for another good work-out.
Now, if only I could withdraw a few of those youthful spent calories.