When you border on extreme corpulence as I do, and happen to live and work in the most Godforsakenly humid environment outside the paedophile section of Hades, you and the water station tend to become very close mates. This is especially true when the air-conditioning is always kindly set to imitate the natural conditions outside. (All the better, presumably, to help the transition when you walk out the doors into whatever mobilemabobie you choose to spend your hours in traffic stuck in once your day’s labours are done)
The water and, in my workplace, tea stations, being the urban watering holes they are, also provide ample opportunity for observing one’s fellow inmates, dream-chasers and high-flyers and give insight into the often curious behaviour of we who have given our lives over to the nine to five. For example, the ray of sunshine that made me smile this week — the heavy smokers who take Canderel in their tea/coffee.
The futility and irony in that made going through a Monday in the office worthwhile. I smiled inside. A deep and true smile. I certainly would stay clear of pointing this out to them. It cannot be that this is all lost on them; they probably are aware of what my underutilised intellect noticed. After all, do we not all make little concessions to our innermost nature? Don’t we all indulge in our own logic — rejecting little pick me ups just to make our 70-odd year trip on this star orbiting rock just a tad more bearable? Free will is rather fond of rendering logic hors de combat like Cain did that suck-up brother of his. Maybe people are health conscious enough and make a concession where they can, but the work stress is just somewhat beyond any unassisted bearing.
Like rappers talking about making paper stacks (oodles of boodle for the kugel set) while spending it all on gaudy baubles and h*es, I hit the gym five mornings a week. And I hit it hard. Then eat like an American defending the national honour. Do I ever stop and think about the near idiocy in this less than optimal behaviour? Yes, but I always console myself with the excuse that at least my life balances itself out (like it actually does — says the voice in my head) and I even out my guilt.
So who am I to judge Mr and Mrs “keep as vigilant an eye out for diabetes as you would the Youth League, while letting cancer through”? I suppose the underlying reasoning is it’s always best to first work on what one can control, right?
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