Patrick Swayze

I’m on one. And it’s a powerful incarnation. Not like health kicks from years past which fell by the wayside like so many dead prostitutes. I’m talking about the health kick of a 35-year-old man who has been forced to grow up a lot in the last 5 years and is missing that ever-important element of adulthood – namely, giving a sweet tweet about whether or not they’re due to drop dead from a heart attack or other unfortunate ailment anytime soon.

I am drinking alcohol in extreme moderation. Using milk in my coffee instead of cream. Not snacking after dinner. Walking my dogs instead of simply letting them outside. Investing in an elliptical to use over the winter. The offices my company moved into this very day come with a membership to their gym. I went to Bruegger’s Bagels for a snack this afternoon and came out with a fruit salad. A fucking fruit salad. That previously repulsive collection of melon, pineapple and grapes was the tipping point for me. I realized this time my “body is a temple” bullshit might not be more pathetic shit – but rather a core paradigm shift. A sea change.

I live in hope that is what this is. As do my children and their ancestors – all of whom have yet to be born. You have poor souls like Swayze who stay uber-fit their entire lives only to fall victim prematurely to a bastard of a disease like pancreatic cancer. Then there are Cheetos-eating clowns like me who lean over the railing and constantly flip-off the Grim Reaper like they’re some kind of invincible. I’m not. My parents weren’t. Not even Dalton from Road House was.

I’m shaping up in just about every way I can think of.