Specifically in reference to lack of exercise and other vices of excess or deficiency in which willpower is involved, I’ve been trying to analyze what’s so repulsive about laziness, either in myself or others. I think I’ve nailed it.

It’s about not taking crap from yourself. Let’s explode that a second. When the person who doesn’t ever exercise just throws up his hands and says, “Ah, well, I should, but I can’t,” which amounts to “I don’t want to, because the `should’ compulsion isn’t as strongly felt as voiced”—this is an instance where the most powerful voice in oneself is the indolent one.

But physical exercise is really the least of my pet peeves, however indicative that may be of a deeper problem (or a genuine lack of time or the presence of a serious handicap, though this much more seldom than people would like to think). What really gets me is that, when it comes to capitalistic syncretism in the church, or major ethical issues, or things like that, people just throw up their hands and go along with the flow: “Oh, there’s nothing we can do. Besides, it would take effort….”

Sometimes I think I was born to be a mental drill instructor. When I go running or lift weights, even play basketball, there is an inner übermensch, a ripped Adonis with a quiet rage at any sign of my indolence: he stands at the sidelines, hands clasped behind his back, scrutinizing all that I do. The only time he lets me say, “I can’t go further,” and get away with it, is when there’s internal bleeding and/or projectile vomiting. (External bleeding, of course, is never a good excuse.)

I love him. He is myself, as the hardass that I am, when it comes to dealing with myself. His rage becomes my rage: I channel him when dealing with people trapped by indolence in their own ignorance—while that inner superman helps with all his might the willing student with any sort of handicap but with the desire to learn, his wrath falls heavily on those who disbelieve in the worth of real thought. It is only through grappling with the superego-esque “tact filter” that I let him manifest himself, though the more tired I am, the more he comes through—both in myself and outwardly directed.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” have been the words of lovers and friends alike. Yes, that may be so, but I’m also quite easy on myself: betimes the socialite sophisticate comes out, the Michael-with-a-monocle in a pressed smoking vest, pipe in hand, inviting me to partake of a fine brandy or cognac and a full, rich smoke.

Besides all that, what’s the point if you’re too easy on yourself? What good is a life that’s all cush? Isn’t that what everyone strives for, every commoner on the planet, for an easy time of it, a life full of orgastic pleasure and copious procedural memory without any real intellectual or spiritual chewing on the meat that matters?

Specifically in reference to lack of exercise and other vices of excess or deficiency in which willpower is involved, I’ve been trying to analyze what’s so repulsive about laziness, either in myself or others. I think I’ve nailed it.

It’s about not taking crap from yourself. Let’s explode that a second. When the person who doesn’t ever exercise just throws up his hands and says, “Ah, well, I should, but I can’t,” which amounts to “I don’t want to, because the `should’ compulsion isn’t as strongly felt as voiced”—this is an instance where the most powerful voice in oneself is the indolent one.

But physical exercise is really the least of my pet peeves, however indicative that may be of a deeper problem (or a genuine lack of time or the presence of a serious handicap, though this much more seldom than people would like to think). What really gets me is that, when it comes to capitalistic syncretism in the church, or major ethical issues, or things like that, people just throw up their hands and go along with the flow: “Oh, there’s nothing we can do. Besides, it would take effort….”

Sometimes I think I was born to be a mental drill instructor. When I go running or lift weights, even play basketball, there is an inner übermensch, a ripped Adonis with a quiet rage at any sign of my indolence: he stands at the sidelines, hands clasped behind his back, scrutinizing all that I do. The only time he lets me say, “I can’t go further,” and get away with it, is when there’s internal bleeding and/or projectile vomiting. (External bleeding, of course, is never a good excuse.)

I love him. He is myself, as the hardass that I am, when it comes to dealing with myself. His rage becomes my rage: I channel him when dealing with people trapped by indolence in their own ignorance—while that inner superman helps with all his might the willing student with any sort of handicap but with the desire to learn, his wrath falls heavily on those who disbelieve in the worth of real thought. It is only through grappling with the superego-esque “tact filter” that I let him manifest himself, though the more tired I am, the more he comes through—both in myself and outwardly directed.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” have been the words of lovers and friends alike. Yes, that may be so, but I’m also quite easy on myself: betimes the socialite sophisticate comes out, the Michael-with-a-monocle in a pressed smoking vest, pipe in hand, inviting me to partake of a fine brandy or cognac and a full, rich smoke.

Besides all that, what’s the point if you’re too easy on yourself? What good is a life that’s all cush? Isn’t that what everyone strives for, every commoner on the planet, for an easy time of it, a life full of orgastic pleasure and copious procedural memory without any real intellectual or spiritual chewing on the meat that matters?