I hope the stairway to heaven is an escalator—that God has gotten with the times and installed this essential piece of machinery. If not, I don’t think I’ll make it to the pearly gates.
I mean, how could He expect me to after my time in the automated world? The drive to work takes me over an hour—much too far to bike—and there is no way I’m walking to the grocery store. All that frozen food gets heavy; my arms would ache before the first block.
I’ll admit, I’m a little overweight, although I prefer the term chubby. I’m told it adds to my charm. I can’t really help it anyway—no time for the gym. My office relies on me: 9-5 at my cube, with just half an hour for lunch (I like the burrito place down the street). When I leave I’m too exhausted to hit the gym. Work wears you down, you know?
Anyway, the reason I tell you this is because I’m at the doctor’s right now. Bad cholesterol. Doesn’t everyone have it? They suggest I eat from a list of “heart healthy” foods, but everything looks so boring. They’re running more tests—blood, urine. I’m a bit nervous, honestly. So I guess you could say I’m just thinking about stuff at the moment—the stairway and all. I swear I just heard someone whisper “diabetes” in the hallway.
In case the escalator isn’t installed yet, I think I’ll start wearing my Nike’s.