I think I've hastened the End Times. I've been to and am about to join a gym, which surely must be a harbinger of the Apocalypse.

See, it's been more than — god, I hate to even think about this — 30 years since I've stepped foot into a gym, and that was in high school. I've always counted on my metabolism — three pant sizes since I graduated, thank you very much, and yes I graduated, high school — and natural athleticism to carry me, but all that's kinda changing with [cough] age.

I avoided gyms because, well, because I'm pretty lazy. I wanted to get a Segway scooter to make the trip from the front door to the mailbox, but that idea was nixed by my frugally conscious and semi-hyperactive wife. The ridicule would have been too much.

The extent of my recent physical exertion has been yard work, brisk walks from the couch to the refrigerator, and elbow curls, and that's a singular elbow, if you know what I mean. OK, we'll leave other forms of physical exertion outta this.