But as much as certain muscle-factions might have protested, that's exercise I prefer to the hothouse flower kind that treadmills and free-weights provide. At least there's something to occupy the mind. Even if it's only speculating on how inbred the spider population must become over the cold months when I haven't the heart to evict them. (Charlotte's Web in First Grade, read by a student teacher I absolutely adored, you understand...)
But I had a minor epiphany today after a bit of email back-and-forth Dennis & I had over the work to be done over the weekend.
Dennis:
Unless you had other plans in the works, I am planning on getting out into the detached garage and doing some cleaning. I would like to get the bee equipment and such organized and moved out to the storage shed, the small table saw ready for sale and just get the garage capable of being walked through without injuring oneself.Now, if you want to understand the garage, what you need to know is that it has already sent Dennis to the emergency room, from whence he emerged, sporting a look that only Boris Karloff could love. (Thankfully, the forehead scar is as distant a memory as the piranha scar from his late teens. And, no, I am not making that up.)
You also have to understand that the garage is, in fact, a mess. So, being the perennial wisenheimer, I snarked back:
What?! Ruin all the "Indiana Jones and the Man-cave of Doom" fun of venturing into the garage?--are you *cracked*, man?!?!?! (Although I will confess to a certain morbid curiosity to know now many dessicated, cobweb-covered corpses you'll find felled by diving pipe-wrenches, bifurcated by Beverly-shears, flattened by giant rolling tool-cases, etc. But, then, I'm kinda sick that way...) ;-P ;-PAwhile later, though, I realized that, Indiana Jones--despite the buffed physique and fast-twitch reflexes of a jungle cat, was actually a nerd in his own way. You don't get the "Dr." in front of your name without some of that in your mental make-up. And, seriously, how many dudes do you know could ID a 12th century inscription while being chased by a secret brotherhood through the underground crypts of Venice with a lovely blonde at their side? Yeah, exactly.
But running for your life (being from giant rolling stones or the flunkies of rival archaeologists) beats the living tar out of trying to follow the plot (minus sound) of Mad Men on the gym television.
Lamentably--at least for present purposes--occultist Nazis and Soviets are considerably harder to come by these days. And, because Mom did her darnedest to raise a post-racial daughter, I'll pass on the hordes of aboriginals from the 2nd & 4th movies, thanks. (Dear Mr. Spielberg: Congratulations on making Rudyard Kipling's ghost blush, you pandering twit.)
Training to become a Jedi Knight would be an excellent way for a geek to blow off steam after a day at the office. After all, you're going to be a force (Force?) for good, and that's one heck of a motivation. (And I imagine the bennies in the Old Republic were pretty good, before Supreme Chancellor Palpatine--a.k.a. Darth Walker--busted the Jedi union and outsourced state security to scabs.) But, there's the celibacy requirement, and I wouldn't trade Dennis for even a rainbow lightsabre, so that's a deal-breaker right there. Not to mention that being able to levitate things with my will would ultimately be counter productive for any fitness regimen.
I suppose there's the holodeck of Star Trek: The Next Generation--basically a Wii on steroids. The fringe benefit is that it AI will do everything physically possible to avoid harming you. (Unless you're as disaster-prone as Lt. Barclay, of course.) I mean, your exercise routine not only monitors your biofeedback, but it also has a plot! (If you ever thought the ST:TNG universe laughably short on chunky folks like your faithful blogger, boy, were you being unimaginative my friend!) It's the perfect workout. Now all I need to do is write code day and night and save enough money to have myself cryogenically frozen until the latter 24th century. No sweat.
Except that maybe that plan is what my favorite History prof. meant by "too clever by half." Drat.
Okay. So maybe something a little closer in space-time would be more practical. Something with motivation and mentoring. The major drawback to hoping that I'm an immortal born to duel my peers for the dubious "prize" (of what I can only assume is bragging rights) is that I first have to verify that I'm immortal. That seems...shall we say...statistically non-viable at best. So I think I'll give that a miss, if it's all the same to everybody. Cato has no doubt retired by now--and in any case, we'd both be uninsurable inside of a month. So that's likewise a bust for keeping me on my toes.
And, lamentably, I've probably missed some sort of age cut-off for the job of "Slayer." Pity. I'm more of a night owl anyway. And I can't say as I'd complain about having a trainer (a.k.a. "Watcher") with a gorgeous British accent and a thing for ancient books. Who nags you to train with cross-bows! But as extracurricular activities go, it's probably not something you want on your resume. (Although, statistically, skinny chicks earn more, so at least there's an upside.) Plus, I just pulled up Google Maps and typed in "Hellmouth," with no exact matches. Which tells me that the job market for Vampire Slayers has pretty much dried up since Buffy hung up her cross and stakes. I suppose any blood-sucking demons left are too busy reinventing themselves as sparkly heart-throbs or nostalgically crashing cosplay parties to hire themselves out as personal trainers.
All of which, of course, means that I have no choice but to find a new video podcast (my carefully-rationed supply of Wine Library TV running critically low) and again take my place in the shadow of The Buffed Ones. If only there were an elliptical machine for the mind...
