Pants on fire

Sam is such a liar. I do not run, much less enjoy all the running I'm not doing.

I tried a version of jogging last spring as a less suspicious way of spying on all of the East River Parkway estates. After a month or two I decided it wasn't worth all of the ankle/knee/lung pain I suffered afterwards. Nah...I can spy on them walking too.

Six-pack Nation

Believe it or not folks, Spring Break is closer than you think. Sunday marks the start of Febuary which means there is only a month and half for you to turn that beer gut into a six pack or to go from the color of cream cheese to a delicious caramel (do you personally pronounce it car-mel or cara-mel? I'm more inclined to the former).

Despite the fact Megan and I will probably both spend the break walking backwards for the U rather than lying on a beach trying to remember what we did the previous night, I have started a workout regime. Have you noticed the difference in my physique? Probably not since I hate working out and and my regime consists of dragging myself to the St. Paul Gym maybe once a week.

Megan, like most people, gets endorphins when she runs. But I feel like my brain is wired in reverse and rather than be happy, I get crabby. And when I'm crabby, we all know it's best just to stay away.

So society you can either have me a six-packed asshole or as a personable, unhealthy flab...but you can't have both.