Bathroom Monologue: Thirty-Three Wiswell Squats Next to the Shower

This is part of my exercise routine from last year, dropped when I realized a dozen doughnuts are much easier than a dozen laps. Thirty-three Wiswell Squats. I’m the only Wiswell that does them, so it’s actually a recessive feature of family, but names are important to me. Get the hand weights, squat bending the knees and pushing the chest out until your ass is parallel to the floor, then straighten back up to proper posture, moving your arms in semi-circles until the weights are high over your head. One makes you feel like an idiot. Thirty-two make you feel like you’re alive. Thirty-three, provided you stop on it, makes you feel like your body has fired you from the company. Legs turn to linguini, the arms ache, the back screams, and because you’re a Wiswell and never undertake exercise too far away from comfort, you flop onto bed. After a while you’ll catch your breath and be able to walk about decently, but if you doubt the Wiswell Squats took effect, take the stairs. The sudden feeling that gravity is auditing your records will give you faith in the exercise.

Thirty-three is my maximum before asthma kicks in, no matter how I pace myself. Last year I was doing three sets of thirty-three a day. Every other day. There are only so many audits a man can take.