I’ve been doing the New York Times’ Scientific Seven Minute Workout for a few months now, and I’m noticing more results than I ever did just by running for an hour every two or three days, but with a few caveats—I work out for at least an hour, not for seven minutes; I record the time I spend doing these exercises, adding fifteen seconds to each whenever I do them; I eat whatever the hell I want (like a singularity, I can consume an entire pizza in less than a second); I walk or bike everywhere I go, and only get inside cars on weekends. I started this workout with a lot more dedication than usual because of its simplicity: I don’t have to waste my time or money going to a gym, I don’t have to embarrass myself in front of everyone sweating like a pig, flushed like a pig, outside, and all I need is a floor and a chair.
It’s a pain in the ass, it’s agony, but I love it. I’ve never sweated so much in my life, actually. The sweat drips from my hair like streams from mountain rocks, mountain lichen; by the time I’m done it looks like someone has spilled water all over the floor. I’ve noticed, also, that while the temperature here is almost always over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, or thirty degrees Celsius (or so…), and while I’m drenched with sweat minutes after stepping outside, my shirt blossoming with darkness, my hair plastered to my forehead, the heat just doesn’t really both me that much. I’ve accepted the sweat, and life goes on.
