Rising up from the work desk

I’m tired of sitting. So tired of it that I don’t feel relief when I sit anymore, I feel relief when I stand. It’s like I go on “sits,” really long sits, and then when I finally stand: that’s when I appreciate the day’s inactivity. My butt feels flabby. It’s due to a lack of movement and way, way too much reading.

I have sat down more this winter than any other winter in my history. I get back pain from not doing things. I’m okay with throwing out my back lifting rocks, but if I tweak a disk logging-in, then I feel like a limp zero. I am aware of my belly when I sit, of my slouched spine, and of shoulder blades that creak a little. My pasty chest, blessed by the promise of hair and cursed with the tail-ends of adolescent pimples, desperately fiends the light. I can see my veins.

It’s like every day begins with the rising of a fluorescent light bulb and ends with the offing of a screen.

I miss the sun, I don’t care if she blinds me, I want to look into her eyes and tell her that I love her, tell her that I won’t take her for granted if she comes back to me.

My bare feet need to breathe. Boots have imprisoned them and socks have kept their odours and moisture captive. My neck needs to be warmed, but not by a neck warmer. My hair is fed up with my toque. My toque is about due for some serious storage time, along with all his friends. I look forward to the moment when I walk my pallid self out onto the grass, trip over my atrophied legs, and expose my ghostly torso. I want to drop that first Frisbee toss and feel my ankle click. These books are staring at me. They need to go back to their boring shelves and let me play.