I awoke early this morning for work. The wife was asleep. She’d gone to bed after me last night, so, obviously I was now hunting throughout the house for possible places she might have left the remote control so I could check the day’s weather. I checked the usual places before expanding my search to the bathroom, the refrigerator and the dirty clothes hamper. Before finding it, I was stuck on an infommercial for some psychotic workout, called insane, or crazy or some such.
It was a rip-off of the P90X workout Paul Ryan cultists, particularly in the media, cannot help themselves from mentioning nearly every time they talk about the guy. They seem intent on mentioning with near psycho-sexual relish his 6% body fat, super tight abs, and great body, which would be fine from say FOX’s Megyn Kelley, but from Steve Doocy, it would get a bit creepy.
But as I was looking in the cat box, the microwave and the recycling bin for the remote, the infommercial had person after person with next to no body fat, I thought that this new proliferation with manic workouts seems, well, a bit inconsiderate.
I recalled, still hunting the remote in a flower vase, the washing machine and cupboard that I’d made pork chops the other day on the grill. These were nice, thick, juicy pork chops with a nice strip of tasty fat on the side. And let’s face it, that is the tastiest part of the chop. I would not want to eat a pork chop from a half-starved pig.
Now I work out regularly, bike about 120 miles each week, hit the gym a couple of times a week. So I’m in good shape, just so I can enjoy a good meal and a beer or two, but I pride myself on a normal, healthy amount of body fat, and content myself with the knowledge that if ever captured by cannibals, at least I know they enjoyed the meal!
“Hon, seriously! Where is the remote?”