Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Welcome back, 2012.
For many of us, it's our first day back—to work, to school, to daycare, back to pants which fit better on the last day before the first day of the vacation which led up to the first day back.
Naturally, the first day coming back to something isn't quite like a day where we begin something brand new.
That first September day of school can be nerve-wracking, yet exciting—new clothes, new classmates, occasionally new facial hair or other body parts which can lead to shock and dismay in the locker room.
At a new job, day one is also exhilarating, yet the information onslaught prohibits our ability to process much. We return home knowing how to look busy with nothing to do, where the bathrooms are and that we'll never again have lunch with that guy Bob who brings to the restaurant his own jar of chipotle mayonnaise.
I'm not sure what the initial day of prison is like, but it's got to be similar to a sorority rush, with diverse social groups vying for your affection, the relentless pressure to always look pretty and all that throwing up after meals.
So, as I mentioned, today is not a first day—it's a first day back—to work, to the gym, and to most of us, to a life of reacquainting ourselves with behaviors which don't encourage an early demise.
It's a return to earth from the festival of lard and sugar which commenced with Halloween, a two-month orgy which begins with seven or eight fun-sized Kit Kats and ends with one supersized...me.
Awakening this morning in the predawn darkness for the first time in ten days, I stumbled out of bed, threw on some shorts and dragged my rotting carcass to the gym.
I mounted the elliptical trainer with an enthusiasm equal to sliding into a dental recliner and tuned my portable radio to the sports talk station. By the time the morning host's voice grasped control of the airwaves, I had gained some valuable knowledge from the advertisers:
My excess belly fat places me at considerable risk of heart attack and stroke, so I should buy this supplement to halt this lurking danger.
My advancing age puts me in substantial peril of decreased libido, increased fatigue and magic eight ball-sized man melons, so I should buy these pills to differentiate my testosterone level from that of a female kitten.
My intelligence and affluent station in society position me in need of a luxury automobile, so I should buy this car and screw the first two products.
As I worked my aging body into an anaerobic lather, I resolved to do none of the above. I'm not going to start something new, I'm simply returning to something that's been there all along.
I'm pretty sure it's in there somewhere.