The first rays of sunlight filter through my blinds, beatifically contouring the form of my sheets as I confidently sit up in bed to stretch and greet the day. For I am into "fitness" now, and I can't be bothered by anything. My blood is vicodin puree. Zen from stem to stern. I only eat food from packages with trendy sans-serif organic labels and only off of plates designed by Swedish art students. My wardrobe consists of pastels and earth tones made of material blends of NASA polymers and hand-dyed fabric from smiling rain forest tribes. You don't wash it, you recycle it into mortar to rebuild the war-torn countries you learn about while standing in line at Starbucks.

This is, of course, utter bullplop. But it is true that I am exercising now; bike riding and yoga. Something in me took a look at the roads and trails around here and said "man, I need to go tear-assing around on loose gravel and in traffic supported by naught but two strips of rubber and Newton's laws." I've logged about 40+ miles in two weeks, mostly riding on a short trail near my apartment. When I'm feeling dumb I go down the road to the bridge and then uphill the whole way back, about 4 miles round trip.

The yoga class meets once a week to reenact cubism's greatest hits through interpretive agony. For some reason this feels really good at the end of class, probably due to the specific targeted nerve damage in my spine so all I can feel is dopamine. Seriously, I feel great. But I'm stretching things Henry Grey didn't know existed. My ulterior motive for taking the class was to try to find people my age to hang out with. According to the two I've met, we're a bit of an anomaly here- a dozen-odd young professionals caught in the limbo between MTV and AARP.