I am going to die. That’s not especially worrisome. What is worrisome is that my body is going to stop working. My calves are going to just sort of dry out and eventually snap, like violin strings if you don’t maintain them. Which I never did. When I played violin for six weeks in preschool. So basically, you have to ask yourself, when you’re here, whether you are doing more harm than good to parts of your body, like your calves, that you never think about except to be annoyed with them for malfunctioning. Johnny Drama in Entourage.
I have no idea if this song has a female singer. Hopefully it does. I didn’t realize that I put together this huge mix and it’s all basically guys complaining about unsatisfying evenings out on the town. Why did I think that would make good workout music? Awesome. It’s the fucking Arcade Fire. I have no idea which way the iPod shuffle is facing. That button is obviously the wrong one, since the song’s starting over again.
At what point is a belly no longer really a belly? I mean, at what point is it more of an acceptable part of a normal stomach? I’m only here to get rid of the residue of the sadness cookies. I can’t believe the receptionist didn’t give me a choice of my fingerprint password. She automatically asked me for my phone number, as though there is no such thing as another ten-digit PIN somebody could conceivably use. Ah, Daft Punk. I can’t believe they only had one good album. Although I do like “Da Funk.” The first time I heard it, in college, I felt like I was about to have a pleasant seizure. So much bass. And why do I need a ten digit PIN anyway? That’s like, six factors larger than the pin I use for my bank, and my bank doesn’t require an optic scan of my fingerprint.
Half an hour is an arbitrary length for a workout. I’m not going to be able to make it through a whole hour, obviously, but after half an hour I always feel as though I did ten minutes “extra,” and could have stopped at twenty minutes. But twenty minutes feels like a baby workout, like a workout for quitters. Twenty minutes is the sort of workout you would order, late at night, from an infomercial company. A twenty minute workout requires lots of other people, an instructor, a swimming pool. Four minute abs. My friend was right, Bad Teacher was patronizing to the profession.
Watching Seinfeld with subtitles is awful. Tone of voice is everything. If I got an email from Jerry Seinfeld I would immediately hate him forever. iPods don’t have radios. I wonder if you can get them to change the channel. The place is deserted, after all. Maybe I could watch Lost in Translation, in its entirety, on Screen 5. Great scene about ellipticals. My neck would get tired, though. Your neck wears out, too. I wouldn’t want to stay here that long. Thirty minutes is long enough, but for the metabolism? Your metabolism goes right back to whatever it was before. The main reason to be here is actually mental health. Endorphins. A basic sense of well-being.
Thank Christ. Rihanna. Finally. Twenty minutes. Runner’s high. Guitar solo by Slash, what an odd guest appearance for him. Do teenagers actually dance to this song? Probably. Eight minutes and thirty eight seconds left. A watched pot. That digital readout produces anxiety. I wonder how to tell them that there was a band-aid already on the machine when I got here. It’s actually good news. Whoever that person was, they have no sense of shame or basic hygiene. But regardless. They’re healing.