My friends are under the impression that because I'm unemployed I have the work ethic of a three-toed sloth and lounge around in trees all day munching on cecropia twigs. This, coupled with my consummate generosity, leads my friends to coax me into things like writing final semester papers and fabricating marketing campaigns. It is simply not true that I do nothing. I continually inform them that I do things. Like read, eat, write, drink, and play Solitaire. When I had an 8am-4:30pm career job, my friends still thought I did nothing. Yesterday my uncle accused me of working three hours of an eight hour workday. I informed him as firmly as Matthew McConaughey's abs that he was mistaken. I averaged five hours of the eight. Seven to eight hours if I had projects. I didn't divulge that I had projects one day in every five.
Today, for example. I evacuated the house because a potential buyer was coming over. The agent called. I had to go to the bank and decided to ride my bike. This may have been motivated by the fact that I sold my car, thus a bicycle or my legs are my only potential methods of transportation. I choose to believe I settled on the bike because I desired exercise.
As I haven't aggressively worked out in three months and haven't participated in any form of competitive organized sport for a year and a half, I probably should have reconsidered biking. This thought intruded my mind as I rode over a neighborhood speed-bump and felt like I was in Hurricane Katrina. This thought again presented itself when the neighborhood gate opened without my hesitation. I have always had to manually press a button for it to open. Only large objects, like tanks and cars, persuade it through motion detectors. I wondered how much weight I had gained to force it to open with the rapidity of an Irish jig. The treacherous ride on Summerfield's sidewalk made it apparent why bike lanes monopolize the city's streets. I should have retreated to my house haven when an off-duty officer rolled down his window at a red light and informed me it was law to wear a helmet. My reply, "Hi officer! I would, but finding a helmet in the garage is about as easy as solving math problems with exponents, variables, and fractions. I used a calculator to play Monopoly with my mom on Mother's Day." He let me go. He may have thought I was deranged.
I should have recompensed when I encroached a hill with the thought, "It's all about momentum. You just need momentum," and after twelve pedal rotations the bike rolled backward. I deduced the momentum tactic is a theory based on Lance Armstrong's abilities and needs to be amended.
I should have reassessed my biking resolution when the tire collided with a rock and I plunged to the side, gravitating to the ground with a reaction time rivaling that of eighty-three-year-old Helen Keller.
Today, for example. I evacuated the house because a potential buyer was coming over. The agent called. I had to go to the bank and decided to ride my bike. This may have been motivated by the fact that I sold my car, thus a bicycle or my legs are my only potential methods of transportation. I choose to believe I settled on the bike because I desired exercise.
As I haven't aggressively worked out in three months and haven't participated in any form of competitive organized sport for a year and a half, I probably should have reconsidered biking. This thought intruded my mind as I rode over a neighborhood speed-bump and felt like I was in Hurricane Katrina. This thought again presented itself when the neighborhood gate opened without my hesitation. I have always had to manually press a button for it to open. Only large objects, like tanks and cars, persuade it through motion detectors. I wondered how much weight I had gained to force it to open with the rapidity of an Irish jig. The treacherous ride on Summerfield's sidewalk made it apparent why bike lanes monopolize the city's streets. I should have retreated to my house haven when an off-duty officer rolled down his window at a red light and informed me it was law to wear a helmet. My reply, "Hi officer! I would, but finding a helmet in the garage is about as easy as solving math problems with exponents, variables, and fractions. I used a calculator to play Monopoly with my mom on Mother's Day." He let me go. He may have thought I was deranged.
I should have recompensed when I encroached a hill with the thought, "It's all about momentum. You just need momentum," and after twelve pedal rotations the bike rolled backward. I deduced the momentum tactic is a theory based on Lance Armstrong's abilities and needs to be amended.
I should have reassessed my biking resolution when the tire collided with a rock and I plunged to the side, gravitating to the ground with a reaction time rivaling that of eighty-three-year-old Helen Keller.
1 comment:
hard worker with free time to help!
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