There are three kinds of flabbiness. They creep up insidiously like vines until it takes a struggle to escape their debilitating clutches.
The first kind, and easiest to fix, is physical flabbiness. Busy schedules and dark winter days win the devil’s footrace against the part of me that knows that exercise isn’t a waste of time but actually makes me more efficient, effective and alert. Despite knowing this, I am still at times sufficiently idle to let my fitness slide away. Before I know it I am easing out my belt buckle and blaming my sloth on the effects of age.
The second stage is mental flabbiness. Give up exercising and inevitably my mind starts to sag as well. One evening I come home tired. Flopping down onto the sofa I break with habit and reach for the television remote. Suddenly I am gripped by light entertainment. I realise how pleasant life can be if I stop thinking about it. I’ll just slump in front of the telly until I have frittered away enough of my life that it’s time to go to bed and put the day out of its sub-conscious misery. It is much simpler to just exist than to live.
By this time I am already well on the primrose way to moral flabbiness. Not only have I conceded my physical health and accepted candy floss in place of a brain, I have also decided that this is good enough for my life. I have decided that Friends repeats and a Chinese takeaway are sufficient output in return for a life on Earth.
Sure, life is dangerous (it ends in certain death), but what a crime not to approach it with gusto while I can. I swell with rage and decide it is time to sort my life out. I plan a trip, set a start date, and hit the road.