Many of my friends, having reached a certain age, are newly committing themselves to exercise regimens. I confess that I, too, kicking and screaming all the way, have started gymming it again; whether this is because I feel some residual Catholic guilt-induced need to balance out my smoking and Tequila habits, or, more likely, another sort of residual Catholic hangover of hoping to catch glimpses of locker-roomed naked-guys I’d never otherwise have any legitimate chance of ogling, remains to be seen.
The truth is, exercise-running-yoga-schmoga – if the universe actually expects me to contort myself into distorted positions with my feet above my head – then the universe would have introduced George Clooney, Brad Pitt, or Christopher Meloni into the equation, otherwise the only lifting I’ll be doing is to shoot a Patron shot and the only heavy-breathing will be between drags on my cigarette.
It’s not too late. And I bet they all do a mean Tequila shot.