You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Manana.
It’s so easy to say Manana.
I’ll get to it later.
I was suppose to exercise today.
I was gonna, but…
Something came up. The dog ate my homework. The hotdog exploded in the microwave.
Yeah right.
Manana. Famous last words.
I was gonna, but…
It’s so damn easy to blow things off now-a-days.
I know I should. I planned to. I just didn’t get to.
Excuses excuses.
I was going to exercise after work. I was going to get on the eliptical, I was going to rock it for 35 minutes. I was going to sweat through a shirt, get my heart rate pumping, try and move some plaque out of my body.
I was gonna wear a head band and leggings ala Olivia Newton John.
I didn’t. Manana.
My heart is clogged like a sink at a fast food restaurant. It’s full of french fry grease and teenage acne.
Hello plaque. Welcome to the coronary thunder dome. Just kill me now.
Working out. That was the plan, that was the idea. The best laid plans, right.
Instead of riding the bike, I’m riding a bar stool at a local watering hole. I’m talking hockey and draft picks and how damn cold it is with my bar keep.
Work out? Woulda shoulda coulda.
Sitting on this bar stool has all the aerobic activity of melting ice.
I feel guilty, but I also feel a healthy dose of who cares.
Manana.
I wonder if squeezing a lime burns many calories, Damn I hope so.
One beer I say to my bartender.
No problem sir, he replies.
And so it began.
A single Dos Equis. Ah the possibilities.
I don’t often blow off my work outs but when I do, I like to enhance my laziness with dreams of far away vacations and marching bands playing my personal theme song.
I don’t even know what the hell that means.
I finish one Dos Equis. I stare at the label. Something’s wrong.
Dos. Dos. Dos.
Ah ha.
I got it. The first word in Dos Equis is Dos and everyone knows that Dos in Spanish means 2, so of course I had to have a second.
No manana when it comes to cervezas.
I talk to a new friend for 2 hours about city politics. I look at my watch and think, I can still catch a work out.
Yeah right. And I can pilot the space shuttle.
I meet some people who sell cowboy boots for a living. One is from Canada. The other is from here. They sure know a helluva lot about boots. More than I really care to know except they feel good, they look good and some cool exotic animal is now dead and wrapped around my feet.
I wonder if talking, flapping my gums is burning any calories. I wonder if thinking hard is going to drop the pounds.
That’s when the couple whose names escape me show up at the bar.
They are friendly and always seem to remember a story I did a week ago.
We pick up a chat where we left off. Amazing how that happens.
She was having fish. He had a lamb chop. It was smothered in sauce and fat and dreams of cellulite gone bad. Damn that looks good, I think to myself.
Must be about 10,000 calories they are collectively about to swallow. They are eating half the caloric intake of a Mardis Gras bender.
I nurse the bottom half of that 2nd Dos Equis. I wonder what the fat content of a Dos Equis is.
6 pm quickly becomes 8 pm. I could still work out, if I had to.
Cripes, it’s America, If I had to I could rent a Stephen King video, polish a 1970’s era pair of Buster Brown Shoes and buy a 1968 Camaro. If I had to.
On this night, on this lazy ass, great ass American night, the desire to work out is gone.
Replaced by limes and dreams of marching bands.
You know what the Mexicans say; “manana”
And that is crazy™