I'm pretty schizophrenic (or is it bipolar?) when it comes to the gym: Either I'm on a five-a-week tear and convinced I'll never again get stuck in a slovenly sloth spiral, or I'm stuck in a slovenly sloth spiral. And the transitions are always a mystery. I never know when the workouts will start petering out, or what sort of catalyst will get my ass off the couch.
Last week, I received such a catalyst. And it came from Peter Griffin.
Sure, you might be thinking. Peter Griffin is morbidly obese. He routinely does full-frontal, yet you never see anything because his belly fat flops so far over his groin. Look at that long enough and anyone would be inspired to get back on the treadmill. True, but in this case irrelevant.
Last week I was clearing an old episode off the DVR when, in one of its myriad flashbacks, Peter tried to mask a farting fit by fake-coughing. It was puerile, it was jejune, and I laughed at it. Then I re-wound it, and lord help me, I laughed harder. This continued for about 1o minutes until my face was so full of tears that I couldn't see the rewind button anymore. I was heaving like an asthmatic walrus and threatening to fall off the couch.
Since our "living" space also doubles as our office, Moxie was about 8 feet away from me and trying desperately to write about adult, motherly things. She tolerated the spectacle for as long as she could, but when it showed no signs of stopping she very persuasively told me to get the hell out of her face. So I wobbled off to the gym.
I am back on my health regimen, quite simply, because farts are funny.
And I am posting about this because the first casualty of this blopathon is my standards.