Resistance is Futile

Attempting positive change is Futile.

My cousin Felix, 14, is trying to whip me into shape. Not any particular shape, an approximation of a fleshy rhombus that can complete a single push up would do. He's one of those classically attractive blonde youths who seem to have a supernatural skill when attempting feats of strength and recklessness. I am frequently in awe of his abilities, but not so much that I would take a bet against them. I've cleaned his room one too many times.

I broke my leg three years ago and am loathe to admit that I am still not fully recovered, and even more so that it is entirely my fault. I did not follow through on my Physical therapy exercises. I did not even maintain a simple exercise regimen. I have refused to even walk certain distances (anything longer than very, very, short) I used my wonky leg as an excuse and my wonky leg remained wonky because the only way to de-wonk a wonky leg is to strengthen it. And the only way to do that is to use it.

I can see Felix outside the window from where I sit writing. He is talking to the neighbors who also take part in his workouts. I frantically began cycling through the many many excuses I have been working on all day. My favorite is the tea tree oil burn from my recent bath. Which is sadly a true story.

Here he comes

crap.