If you missed is somehow, Men’s Fitness Magazine declared Miami as the “Fattest City in America.” We’re Number One.
Also listed was the nation’s fittest city, but who cares? Let’s celebrate our own victory, and leave lesser titles for underachievers across the fruited plain to gloat inside their igloos.
The magazine has conducted this annual rating for over a decade. Their concern, of course, is purely pecuniary: its editors understand that when it comes to fitness, shame, guilt, pride, etc. are better motivators than vanity. Even the desire to get laid takes a back seat. Maybe, by fingering Miami, they can peddle a few more subscriptions in a new market.
Perhaps. If they bring out a Spanish language version.
Among the factors cited: despite the climate, the local population doesn’t take advantage of the city’s excellent parks and recreational facilities, there are a disproportionate number of crappy and unhealthy fast food outlets, and ‘way too much time is lost to commuting when exercise should be conducted.
I understand, but these are lame excuses, easily embraced by individuals whose motivation just isn’t there. I offer myself as Exhibit A. I weigh about the same as I did when President Roosevelt (Theodore) visited my class in Central High School, Philadelphia. (Which, by the way, is the last time the Eagles won a Division title. But just wait — after this weekend, it’ll happen again. The Eagles, that is, not a visit from Roosevelt.)
If you still care about your appearance, you’ll do something. Anything. It’s a question of values. Eat less or at least better. I still wear the Jordache and French Star jeans I wore from my rock star days (well, in basement rehearsals), which saves me a lot of money I can spend on fine tequila and H. Upmann cigars. Values. Pick your sins and stick with ’em. I wanna look good enough to inspire strange women to eye my package, grope my ass and…..whoops. Hi, Guido. You reading this?
Anyway. It’s Friday. Happy weekend, everybody. I’m already there.