Business is bad. Gone are the cookbooks calling for lard-laden dishes served up by a smiling brunette with a bob and a smile that says "Yes, Dear." How does she keep her figure? Perhaps it is the relentless vacuuming, in high heels nonetheless. Really stretches those calves.
No, people are forsaking the casserole for the salad, trading the remote for the dumbbell, and chewing gum in lieu of smoking. They are tracking their steps/miles/kilometers/furlongs with those ubiquitous, sleek watch-like bands. Taking the stairs, biking to work, drinking kombucha and organic green tea...unfiltered, unprocessed, unadulterated. Raw is the new cooked.
As a weight-lifting, asana-striking, mostly vegan vegetarian, what am I complaining about? After all, we're all on board now on this waste vegetable oil powered bandwagon sipping hemp lattes and trading essential oils!
It's business, my business, namely working in a procedural area of the hospital. If no one needs their heart fixed, I don't work. Thankfully, due to habits inherited from my Depression-era grandparents and an overall lack of interest in many material possessions, I haven't had to resort to eating Ramen noodles or pawning action figures. In fact, I have become richer. Not in money, but in time, a most precious natural but nonrenewable resource. I can't put hours into my 401k but I can invest in myself, cheesy though it sounds.
So here's to the next small ration of time. Time to dust off old projects, start new adventures, plot new mayhem, and get ripped (to the extent that I can with peanut butter shakes and a limited amount of intrinsic testosterone). If what I unleash seems better kept in the dungeon, blame the FitBit.
No comments:
Post a Comment