Metabolism
I've never been a pure athlete: I hate jogging, despise anything called a "work out." But I have spent the better part of my life being active... intramural baseball, girls hockey, commuting to work on my bike.

But then we hit middle age and something happens. Being active isn't enough. Well not for me anyway. Whether it's my genes, my metabolism or just because it seems to be pick on Trish's fat cells season, things drop; things bulge; things swell; and things suck. Especially when I see little tiny women showing off various piercings and tattoos on their midriffs. And what's worse, when fellow middle aged friends seem to be able to have 2 servings of food to every one of mine and not gain an inch I just want to fricking scream!

My metabolism sucks ass! I know there's absolutely nothing I can do about it... and when I DO try to deal with it... well lemme tell you a story:

I started a new job yesterday (ya, I know.) That's always a bit exhausting -- meeting new kids, finding the bathroom etc -- so I said to myself "maybe I'll skip the gym today, I've earned a day off." But then a voice in my head said "that's a slippery slope, my friend, your stupid metabolism needs daily care." So I went to the gym, did all those bloody ab thingies and started my frickin weight program (can you believe I'm talking like this? Yeeech!) And that's when disaster struck: I had to attach a bar to a piece of equipment and the weight slipped and I ended up slitting my right thumb open and the clowns in the health club had no disinfectant and no gauze, couldn't even tell me where the closest clinic was "duh, Ben, where's the yellow pages, eh?" told me I might need a stitch or 2, didn't offer to call a cab, so I ended up just going home thinking Mike Harris's emergency rooms would turn me away, cleaned and dressed my thumb, drank a wee dram (medicinal don't you know) and fretted the night away thinking I'm going to get the flesh-eating disease.

So the thing is, fighting a slow aging metabolism really sucks. Really really fricking sucks. And when I lose my arm to Necrotizing Fasciitis/Myositis, I certainly won't be turning down that 2nd or 3rd helping of chocolate cake!
 

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