We are so far removed from the food chain. Humans don’t even consider themselves as part of the animal kingdom anymore. We have cars. We have devices that connect us to every other human on the planet instantaneously. We don’t have to hunt—just gather. So it’s no wonder that someone invented the gym. Otherwise, many of us would be crippled, due to muscle atrophy.
I think about this frequently. Especially on days when I don’t really want to GO to the gym. I think about how those hardy antecedents of mine could eat huge meals, with at least three helpings of pie, and even after thousands of calories, they looked stringy and lean. These people worked the land. They followed oxen around fields of rocky soil. They wrestled with obstinate farm animals. The women folk boiled their laundry.
My day consists of making elaborate lists, recharging my Kindle, swiffing around casually, and wiping down the countertops with Clorox infused disposable cloths. On a frenetic day, I have to drive to the grocery and pick up dry cleaning. It’s no wonder my thighs resemble custard.
So in order to add a little hardship to my days, and to increase my fitness level, I have decided to go about my quotidian tasks with increased zeal. I figure that if I don’t actually have any oxen around, it might be advantageous to behave as if I do. For instance, when wiping down the Formica, I apply twice the pressure that is required, and I wipe very fast. This tires me out, and I feel much more akin to Laura Ingalls Wilder.
When making muffins from a mix, I stir them around like a human Cuisinart. That must be good for my biceps and burn extra calories. And then, when I take them out of the oven, I jump up and down five times after I place them on the trivet. See? This is so much more work. I feel more alive, more in touch with my ancestors.
Laundry day is another opportunity for zealous living. I now carry the contents of the hamper down to the laundry room on my head, just like the women in Africa. I am sure I will get better at this, and stop losing socks on the way down. I am going to go to Pier One to look for a basket I can learn to balance on my head. That might help.
I am zealous about dressing. I now stand up to put on my pants—none of this sissified sitting on the bed—no! Standing to put pants on requires skill and balance. My thighs are tightening right up.
As far as cooking is concerned, I don’t think I will ever go to the lengths that my grandmother did, wringing chicken necks and all. I will just have to forego that experience, and instead give the baggie with the Shake and Bake a few more jiggles than are really necessary.
I am promoting this as an answer to obesity, diabetes, ennui, and reality television. It’s going to become the latest trend. I call it “Zealous Living.”
My phone is ringing. I think it may be Oprah.
