You

Let’s say you run.

You, not me.

You’re not running with a spear or an axe waving above your head towards some tasty animal you wish to catch and consume and you’re not running away from a big monster with a bad disposition and pointy fangs who wishes to consume you. You’re not even running away from the police if you’re a criminal, which I hope you’re not.

No. You are just running around in circles, all the way around the outskirts of the local university, over and over and over again. You’re doing this a couple nights a week. For ten years.

This might sound a little pointless or crazy to some, sure, but you’re the one who is doing it and I am not passing judgment.

After ten years of this drudgery, you start smoking cigarettes again. Almost immediately, running in circles loses whatever attraction it once held. Its feasibility. Walking begins to seem like a better idea or at least a decent compromise. I mean, after all, it’s not like you’ve been trying to catch food or avoid being food. Relax. Walk around a bit. You’ll get there.

Two more years go by and you discover that four out of five doctors from the 1950s were wrong when they said that smoking calms the nerves, aids digestion, and makes you look sophisticated.

You quit smoking again. Everyone applauds.

Now at this point, four out of five doctors from the 2010s would probably recommend that you not simply pretend the intervening two years never happened. Do not, my fine runner-to-nowhere, kick back in with a full intense running regimen as you attempt to replace your addiction to smoke and drink with an addiction to running. Definitely don’t simultaneously up the ante on your workout routine at the same time.

C’mon. You know better than that.

Unless you don’t know better than that. Unless you begin running in circles, maybe even six miles at a go, and then waving those appropriately-named dumbbell things around like there are no potential ill consequences to be had.

Because if you do that, surprise, bad things can happen to you. Maybe a ruptured disc. Maybe a pinched nerve. The doctors, well, they’re still not sure precisely how you’ve messed yourself up. They are pretty sure you’ve messed yourself up, though.

Two last bits of advice, since your life choices have become so shockingly poor as to require do’s and don’t’s from the likes of me:

First, when the doctor tells you you’ve done this to yourself, don’t say, “So what I’m hearing you say is that you believe I oughta go back to smoking.” Unless you have one of those 1950s doctors, in which case, you know, give it a go.

Second, when you’re lying on your back at 3 in the morning screaming out in pain and scaring the bejeezus out of the cat, don’t try and convince your blogging friends that your life has been ruined by the discontinuation of your bad habits. That would be insincere, bad form, and really, I would have expected a lot better out of you.