When I turned 30 I vowed I would change my life, and I did. I swore I’d stop lounging around on the couch all the time, and I did. I moved to a comfortable chair. I swore I’d stop eating Big Macs for breakfast, and I did. I started eating off the breakfast menu. I swore I would start working out, and I did. I sat around in a comfy chair eating McDonald’s breakfast, and that worked out. Until yesterday. When I found out I’m too out of shape for spectator sports.
I knew I was too out of shape to play professional sports. I even knew I was too out of shape to play baseball, the professional sport rap icons the Fat Boys are really good at…
Yesterday at Dodger Stadium, I found out I’m too out of shape to watch baseball. I’m not too proud to say it. I’m actually not proud of it at all. In general, very few of my pounds consist of pride.
I know most of the blame is mine and mine alone. But in fairness to me (and fairness was invented to validate my imperfections), Dodger Stadium is at the top of Mount Who the Fuck Would Put A Stadium Up There; the mountain that begs the question, “Hey, fuck you.” There’s no reason to put a stadium up there. There’s plenty of flat shit here in LA. Fuck you.
We trekked up this mountain and I thought I would die. Then we hiked several flights of steps to the stadium and I was certain I would die. Then we climbed the set of steps to our seats and I prayed I would die. Even as I write this now I remain convinced I’ve survived this long only to tell my tale and that as soon as I push “PUBLISH” I will instantly gain 500 pounds in shame and die of obesity (or fat panic, as is often the case in episodes of instantaneous massive weight gain).
I won’t take all the blame. Some of it has to fall on Dodger Stadium. If you’ve never been, imagine a sandbox of fire crossed with an unfinished basement.
Some of the blame also has to rest on the shoulders of this thick Los Angeles smog. I know what you’re thinking – That’s a rationalization for poor cardiovascular health. And smog doesn’t have shoulders. And to those comments I respond – Of course it’s a rationalization. And everything has shoulders!
The point is, there are a lot of factors at play. A small fraction, really just one iota, of the blame even belongs to the cigarettes I chain-smoke while writing these blog entries for you guys. There’s no scientific proof of that, but I feel it in my gut. Or more my disintegrating lungs. Where I keep my vibes.
And if we are blaming the cigs I smoke while I write for you, a tiny piece of blame has to be yours, no?, You, the readers, allowed me to become this way. You supported it; rewarded it, even. If you didn’t read my posts I’d be healthy and happy, climbing mountains in my sleep and waking up atop mountains. Please don’t test that theory. Mountain air is bad for sinuses. Also your fault.
My name is Ben and I’m not too out of shape to shirk responsibility.
