I was in the locker room at the gym just now, putting away my clothes, when a woman came over and opened one of the lockers in the upper bank next to me. The door promptly fell off its hinge, nearly squashing her.
“See that?” I said. “Exercise is bad for you.”
“Actually, if I hadn’t been working out so much, it would have fallen on me,” she said. And then she applied stupid little weight-lifting gloves to her stupid little paws and toodled out into the gym in a high odor of sanctity.
This is my problem with exercise, and it’s the same one I have with the Grateful Dead and Jesus: I can’t stand the fans.