50 push-ups a day. The perfect resolution. Specific, not too demanding (there's a thousand-a-day-club online for obsessive compulsives), and I can do them at home or at the gym I never go to--hence the need for an exercise resolution--or at the office. Wherever there’s a horizontal surface, which means anywhere but mid-air.
Here's a guy who can do them in mid-air. I changed this post and threw in the video just so you could see what I'm aspiring to. Toward the end, you'll see the coolest push-up ever.
My point is, it wasn't all the time I spent levitating on Saturday that kept me from getting to the push-ups. What happened was, I woke up the next day, walked out to get the Sunday NYT, saw my buff gay neighbor getting something out of his car, and realized that I hadn’t done my 50. I actually like doing them. I just forgot.
My buff gay neighbor is older than I am. And although he's no Scott Wills (cuz who is?), he's proud enough of his arms to wear shirts with the sleeves torn off even when it's below freezing. I bet he watches himself in the mirror as he tears the sleeves off. Five shirts = ten reps. The guy is ripped, man.
So I’m back to doing push-ups again, but now having missed a day is bugging me. The whole thing seems pointless, somehow, even though the point was never merely to fulfill the resolution, but to get some exercise for the love of God you lazy bastard why can’t you get off your ass. I’ve failed, and I feel bad about it.
I need to sit for a long period of time and reflect on this. Maybe drink a little, eat something. Grab the laptop, get some writing done. Turn on the tube to distract myself from the shame. It’s going to take some time to get over it. The rest of the year, probably.