You’d think with all the vitamins I’m taking, I’d be the picture of health. Happy, vibrant, full of vim and a dash of vigor—and a whole crapload of vinegar because I am just that sassy. It turns out that vitamins are not a magical cure-all elixir, and we should get together and storm the GNC in order to demand that they pay for their terrible, terrible lies that have ruined lives, I bet.
Possibly my life isn’t ruined by a cold that has moved from my head, down into my lungs, and then maliciously sent out feelers to my belly and my entire intestinal tract and squeeeeeeezed. Ow. But I respond very poorly to not being able to do what I want to do, which is not lie on the couch and wheeze and whine and cough and double over and pray for the sweet release of beautiful death. I also want to go running, to try to make it to that goddamn yoga class, to make an appointment with the personal trainer so I can find out what is the proper way for picking up weights and then putting them back down, and so far, all my endeavors towards that end have been firstly, failures, and secondly, aborted before they even began.
This has been going on for almost two weeks, now, and I was sick of it
and sick and tired of sleeping in, instead of getting up early to run
because that was just lazy and stupid and I was fine, or I would be,
because exercise makes you healthy, right? So this weekend I put on my
workout clothes and strapped on my sneakers and flopped on the train,
breathing slowly but believing myself when I thought Self, you are just
tired. You are not in the grip of the ague, nor have you been bit by
adders. You will be just fine once you hop up on that treadmill and
sweat out the toxins! The toxins of sleep.
I hopped up on that treadmill and I felt light-headed, but I pushed on.
I started running, and I stumbled, but that is totally par for the
course with me because I am as graceful as a gazelle who is mildly
retarded and wearing a straitjacket. And things started to get gray,
but I thought that was totally par for the course because I am—well,
mildly retarded. And things went black, and I grabbed the side of the
treadmill and hung on and pounded the control panel until I hit the
stop button and then I sat down and put my head on my knees and
wondered if I would be charged a lot of money if I threw up on a
treadmill. So I threw up on the carpet next to the treadmill and cried
a little bit, because that’s what you do when you throw up extremely
embarrassingly in public.
So I haven’t tried that again. I’ve been lying down a lot, choking down
my vitamins, crying into the matted fur of my teddy bear who is the
only one who understands me, and waiting for the boils to erupt on my
skin and the plague to carry me away toward the light. It is not a
pleasant way to live. I do not want to live in a perpetual state of
nauseous self-pity, because that is just not productive. And also, it
is kind of pathetic.