Tonight I told my therapist I’m going to a doctor for a yearly checkup. She said, “Suppose the doctor says your bloodwork is fine, and your only prescription is more exercise — that a consistent workout regimen would definitely make everything better. Would that motivate you to make it a more regular habit instead of just once in a while?” And I told her no. I wouldn’t take a “real” doctor’s order any more seriously than my therapist’s. I know hippies will sing the praises of exercise until the goddamn grass-fed, rainbow-raised cows come home. But I’m waiting for the day they say it’s all horseshit, like they just did with flossing. Dentists have been up our asses with floss for, what, 50 years? Then suddenly they’re all, “NOPE, it’s just minty string.” (I don’t necessarily believe that, I’m just being petulant.)
But I get it: “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.”
Fine, I’ll add more exercise. Fine. FINE.
Smug Singleton 