the music is making me fat

I decided that this 'healthy living' thing was long overdue. Lately, it seems that my gelatinous body complains about even the smallest amount of physical activity.

Some time on the tread mill, I reasoned, would reduce the huffing and puffing that occurs when I simply walk from the kitchen to the couch. Besides, my rent includes access to a gym...so it wasn't like this desire to improve my health would cost me anything. Because if there's one thing I'm frugal about, it's spending money to improve my health. Money should be spent on more important things like wide-screen televisions and ipods.

Having been so long absent from any type of exercise institution, I wasn't sure what the current fashion trends were, so I grabbed what I hoped would pass for appropriate gym attire...a ratty old t-shirt and shorts...and headed off.

I entered the gym and wandered over to the treadmills, ready to get myself into shape. I mentally pumped myself up on the car ride over, just in case my mind revolted and forced me to turn into the nearest fast food restaurant rather than submit itself to actual exercise.

I stepped onto the treadmill and started off at a slow jog, when the sound of the overhead speakers entered into my consciousness. The radio station that was being piped throughout the gym happened to be a local soft rock station...not one of my particular favorites, but nothing that I had any serious objections to...until I recognized what song was being played.

As I was jogging away, Celine Dion was singing the theme song to the film Titanic. And I quickly realized that a ballad professing endless love was not the best musical selection to encourage physical exertion. I felt like I was running in slow motion...my feet wanting to keep pace to the music rather than the pace of the belt moving swiftly beneath me. I fought through the pain however...which is what us true exercise enthusiasts do.

As Celine finished her song and another slow, saccharine dripping love song began, my brain began to win the 'stop jogging' argument.

'How can you possibly jog to all this soft rock?' it asked me...and I use the third person here because my brain was clearly acting of its own accord. 'It simply doesn't seem like real exercise when you're running with love songs playing in the background.'

My brain had a point, so I stopped jogging. To my benefit, though, I put in a whole .07 miles.

I decided to hit the weights instead. But when an Air Supply song started playing, I found that I just couldn't muster the strength to lift anything. Soft rock and pumping iron are diametrically opposed, I realized. Perhaps, had Einstein lived long enough, he would have come up with a mathematical equation to prove this...but even in the absence of hard evidence, I felt positive that this was one of those universal truths.

I gave up and left. My brain, having won the argument, forced me to turn into a McDonald's restaurant...to the victor goes the spoils.

Oddly enough, the same soft rock station that had been playing in the gym was also playing at McDonald's. And as I sat in front of my Big Mac and fries, I realized that while soft rock isn't conducive to exercise, it goes quite well with eating.