Today I joined the resolution reserves, those people who wait every year for that next minute to roll over on the clock demanding that this time, that this year, they will finally get in shape, and in spite of my cynicism, there I was, sacrificing sweat and the finest of fat to the almighty gods of the Sioux Valley Wellness center in their surprisingly mechanistic incarnations. The stationary bikes pedals, getting tougher by the minute to, well, pedal, seemed to be a task worthy of some tragic Greek, and with each tenth of a mile added, the stone seemed to roll down the hill once more. Sitting there, and listening to the Black Keys, for my hopes of listening to a TED.com lecture were quickly lost with absentee signals, I watched as the vanguard raced around the track, their breathing controlled to a steady, “in, out, in, out, in, out.” There was a girl next to me learning, from those most excellent of sages, how to please her man (god forbid a woman’s magazine would consider her pleasure). After I paid my two pounds of flesh, I found my way, with the other retired regiment, to the sauna, where a nice steam purified a well-tainted young man.

Aside- Ab Ripper X, with two beers in one’s stomach, is one of the worst tortures any masochist can inflict upon him/herself.