I’m feeling particularly fit today. Looking younger, too, if I’m any judge. Then I walk into the market and some punk stocking shelves calls me middle aged. He means no offense, and it’s true (I looked it up)—but this is a first for me, and it rankles. I consider calling him a slobbering infant, but think better of it. Instead, I go home and hit The Machine.

More squeaks, no surprise; at least it’s coming from The Machine and not me. Middle aged people squeak, don’t they? If not, their knees creak now and again. Don’t ask me how I know. But, hey—Hollywood’s most admired stars are pretty much all middle aged, right? Well, the guys anyway. And a lot of the women look better in middle age, too. So there.

But what was I writing about? Oh; exercise. Right. Twelve minutes, 60 RPM. Not bad for a middle aged guy who just started working out.

Punk. Go check in the back. You’re out of my yogurt.

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Stat tally:

BASE:

246.9 (weight on waking)
73 (pulse, resting)
118/74 (blood pressure)

WORKOUT:

12:00 @ 60.41 RPM (avg)
180* (pulse, after cardio)
110.6 (calories burned on machine)
1,450 (strides)

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