I DON'T COUNT.

I do push-ups. (“No, you don’t.”) Yup. (“Really?”) If I don’t accomplish anything with my day, I’ll do push-ups to feel like I’ve accomplished something with my day. But even if I do accomplish something with my day, I’ll do push-ups anyway. And I do ‘em, man. Here’s how I do push-ups. (“Wait. Where do you do them?”) In my apartment. (“No. Where on your body do you do push-ups? Because I see nothing different about you physically.”) Shut up. (“Sorry. Continue.”) I do them without counting. I do them until I physically can’t do them anymore. If it’s all about some number, then the destination becomes more important than the journey and isn’t that a bad thing? Aren’t people always saying: “It ain’t the destination. It’s the journey, bro”? (”My destination is the end of this blog.”) So here’s what I do: I start doing push-ups and count like this: “Five hundred and forty-seven trillion, six hundred and twenty-seven billion, nine hundred and seventy-nine million, four hundred and sixty-three thousand, one hundred and fourteen. One hundred and eleven trillion, five hundred and eighty-six billion, three hundred and seventy million, five hundred and ninety-two thousand, eight hundred and forty.” Et cetera. And I do that until I don’t known what number I’m on, until I’ve done enough push-ups that I’ve mentally lost count so I can proceed to do them because my body can do them, not because my mind can count them. I’m always counting. (“I’ve been counting the minutes you’re taking to tell this story.”) So I do them until I can’t do them and collapse, my right cheek pressed to the hardwood floor where I can see the vast collection of dust that’s amassed under my blue bass guitar and think: “Man, I gotta do some dusting” and then I fall asleep. I fell asleep once in my underwear laying on my hardwood floor. That happened yesterday anyway. (“I’m sorry. What were you saying? I fell asleep.”)

I remain

Champagne

Remain Champagne

I DON’T COUNT.