Medicine Ball Rapid Squats with Explosions—yes, actual liftoff, feet airborne like a NASA launch—have officially dethroned the stationary bike as my cardio weapon of choice. For sixty glorious, self-inflicted minutes, I was drenched in blissful sweat, hurling that rubber orb like it owed me money. Then came the aftermath: fatigue so pure and existential I could hear the clock ticking on my lifespan. I collapsed into a nap with the urgency of a man dodging the Grim Reaper.
Now? I’m upright. Serene. Humbled. Prepping to teach a class on Ozempification, AI, and the slow, clinical death of food culture. The brain is willing, the PowerPoint is ready—but spiritually, I’m still in the garage, shirtless and heaving, chasing glory with kettlebells and a medicine ball like a 63-year-old Olympic hopeful with a PhD in futility.
I don’t know what compels me to train this hard. Maybe it’s defiance. Maybe it’s denial. Some hybrid of Rocky Balboa and Hamlet. Either way, this zeal is a strange cocktail of vitality and panic. I hope it’s health. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t reek, just a little, of desperation. Then again—what is passion, if not a dignified form of flailing against the void?
Cinemorphosis 
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