I am currently holed up in a hotel room halfway through week three of an 8-week business trip. As the days pass, I grow more concerned for my health. I’m not exercising. Yes, I was barely exercising before I left town, but now my cardio workout is completely limited to the 150 feet journey from my hotel room to the elevator and the elevator to the conference room in the hotel where I meet every day. I can’t even sweat off a few pounds in this record-high heat because I have no reason to go outside the air-conditioned cocoon that is the hotel.

If you couple this lack of exercise with the absurd diet I’ve undertaken, one would question how my arteries haven’t outright solidified. As I type this, I am simultaneously inhaling an extremely large slice of Red Velvet Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory. Yes, I walked about a one-mile round-trip to get it, but that falls about 7.3 miles short of the distance required to exercise those calories off. 

“So what?” you ask? Woe is me? Yes, perhaps woe is me. Perhaps woe is you. Perhaps that phrase never made any sense to any person who never spoke the Queen’s English. And Why is it the Queen’s English? Maybe the Queen should share some credit for the development of this language with centuries of lingual-Darwinism that should hopefully see the demise of the British superfluous “u” and the inane practice of replacing z’s with s’s soon. Shall we organise a party at the neighbour’s house in the centre of town? I THINK NOT, QUEEN! 

Sorry, I may have lost my focus for a moment there. The point of this post is to just have it on record that I may not survive another 5+ weeks living this way. Should anything happen to me and my body is discovered by the woman who cleans my hotel room and adds to my odd collection of mini-shampoo bottles on a daily basis (they make my hands look so giant!), I would like to allocate my possessions to the following recipients: my collection of pint glasses liberated from every bar and restaurant I have ever gone to with someone who had a purse goes to the Smithsonian, my college loan payments go to my mom, and my down pillows go directly into my coffin where they will be cremated with me in the ridiculous fireworks finale of my funeral, to which my life insurance payment will be allocated to pay a Walt Disney World pyrotechnics expert to arrange. 

Yours in Christ,

Jeff

PS - It’s been 6 months since I posted, so I’m a little out of practice. If this wasn’t up to par, it could have been worse. It could have been that Coors Light commercial with Ice Cube. Terrible.