Just like most people, I am asked on an almost-daily basis what my favourite animal is. The only questions I am asked with greater frequency are, ‘What made you think that was a good idea?‘, and variants of ‘Did you take my X?‘ – for which I have a selection of stock answers.
The problem with this question is that I have so many favourite animals – and this is because there are so many good ones.
I can’t tell you my favourite animal – nor even, say, my favourite aquatic animal. I couldn’t even narrow it down to my favourite aquatic mammal – but I can tell you that my favourite aquatic mammal that-looks-awesome-on-a-beach is the sea lion – and my favourite aquatic mammal that-doesn’t-look-awesome-on-a-beach is the whale.
A swimming pool is a big pool of liquid in which people swim. They come in many shapes and sizes, and occasionally are filled with non-conventional liquids – just like the swimming pools themselves.
All swimming pools are fun places to go, unless you have a phobia of swimming pools, or can’t swim, or have traumatic memories of the time a swimming pool touched you in a non-conventional place.
But regardless of how fun it can be, a swimming pool is just a poor person’s ocean. It doesn’t have tides. It doesn’t have beaches. It usually doesn’t have waves to play in, or interesting weather phenomena like waterspouts or sea-fog. It’s filled with far less interesting wildlife, and is a terrible as a trade-route. On top of all that, it’s only about half the size – which means the urine concentration is twice as high.
There are many differences between the genders. Some of these are obvious – like a pair of lovely boobs – but it’s rude to stare, so we’re all obliged to pretend they’re not that obvious.
And when making statements about differences between the genders, one has to be careful because there are always exceptions to those statements – men with lovely man-boobs, for instance – and this can make spotting differences more complicated.
The other night I had two pieces of news:
One was that the lovely Miss-Matic would be away overnight the next day, due to a work commitment; the other was that our fridge-freezer had broken.
Now, I’ve been living in this world for a couple of years now, so I know the rule for this kind of situation:
When one is the recipient of two pieces of news, those two factoids have to be classified into ‘good’ news, and ‘bad’ news categories.
Uh oh. I’m in trouble.
Miss-Matic has guests. And when Miss-Matic has guests, the laws of chaos seem to inexplicably change.
Normally, when I walk into a someone’s home and see an unwashed mug, the roof of that home does not sag and collapse and kill all the occupants.
Usually, when I’m sitting on a friend’s sofa and spot a crumb on the floor, a madman does not leap through the window in a cloud of glistening glass shards, and slaughter everyone in the room in particularly bloody and brutal ways.
And never, in my personal experience, upon spotting a coffee ring on a horizontal surface – which is usually a good thing, a sign that the surface is sufficiently robust should I wish to rest a warm beverage on it – have I caused the eruption of a solar flare of such magnitude that it boils the oceans and sterilises the planet down to bedrock.
You would not believe Miss-Matic hasn’t experienced these things if you had ever witnessed her expecting guests.
I like cats, but my affection for these aloof felines sometimes comes with negative consequences – and therefore I don’t always like that affection.
For instance, as much as I love getting cat on my face, my immune system doesn’t. It makes my skin turn red and bumpy. I start to wheeze and sneeze. I scratch my neck. And if I get cat in my eyes – either directly or via my fingertips – they turn red, water, and itch like a motherfucker.
But I’ve recently realised another disadvantage of liking cats:
I don’t like things.
I’m a grumpy person, and so, I like not liking things. I get a sense of familiar reassurance when there is something I don’t like, a sense that everything is right with the world – that I can clearly distinguish between good things – which are likeable – and all the other shit on the buffet of life.
Conversely, there are some things that I do like.
And, as a grumpy person, I don’t like this fact.
I don’t like spiders. Nobody likes spiders. Let’s not kid outselves about this. Nobody.
Those freaks who keep tarantulas in tanks? They don’t like spiders. They just want to know where that bastard is at all times.
When they get it out of the tank and let it crawl up their arm? They don’t like that. They’re not stupid. They’re just trying to get it used to their scent, so it doesn’t call over its buddies to have a face-eating party the following evening.
Okay, okay. I suppose that is a somewhat misleading title.
Of course I’m not exercising. Don’t be silly. I’m in bed, drinking coffee.
Maybe I should have called this post:
Ash-Matic Thinks About Doing Exercise In a Minute.
Ash-Matic Ponders the Problem of Exercise.
I think I prefer the last one, after all, there IS a Problem of Exercise. We all know this. It stands up there with the great philosophical problems, like the Problem of Evil, or the Problem of Other Minds – only nobody dares to treat it with the same academic consideration or importance, for fear of seeming lazy.