*Puff* *wheeze*

I just went jogging and, trust me, this comes back to scriptwriting.

When I was much younger and had made up my mind that I would spend my life writing, my Dad took notice. He came up to me and pointed at his then-rotund (and still hairy) midsection and said "Oliver, if that's what you want to do then take heed boy, take heed of what I hath wrought in my years at the bench".

I may be paraphrasing here.

But yes, like some corpulent ghost of Christmas future, dad's gut was giving me a message - those who sit down for a living are particularly susceptible to becoming grossly unfit. A few years later Dad would start going to a gym and minding his diet better, at this point in his late fifties. I'd like to think the new generation can learn from the previous one, so at twenty-six I am trying to take dad's gut's message in a little earlier. I've been able to slip by on my absurd metabolism for years but, about two years ago, I noticed a small yet perceptible slowdown - like a cheetah that notices it is still outrunning the lion but by just a little bit less each year.

Being around the home and writing or editing as much as I have these past few weeks, I began to notice another little slowdown. Add this to my meeting someone fit enough to make me do a spit-take when I saw her snare-drum of a stomach and this ends up with me pushing my little legs around the neighborhood this morning. It felt good and I stopped after the point at which it would have been embarrassing to do so. A man can't ask for much more on his first day at it (said the bishop to the actress).

Anyways, enough of that - I'd rather not be the type to exercise for one frigging morning and then spent hours waxing on about how the visceral ballet of the battle of the bulge made them feel more in tune with sister Nike. Keep an eye on this spot for some of the shit I learned while getting the show up in order.