Ok, so we’re five weeks into the new year and I’ve already betrayed all of my resolutions. For one, I’m eating like I’m 51 months pregnant. Just yesterday I went to both Popeye’s and Panda Express for dinner. Oh, and did I mention that I also went to Mrs. Fields for cookies afterward? And no, I didn’t just get one cookie. I got six!!! Definitely not my finest hour in terms of calorie content. On top of that, I didn’t work out at all last week or the week before. Then again, maybe I can count that one afternoon when I found that stale piece of gum that had been hiding in my glove compartment for a year or two. It gave my jaws a real work out. Hmmm. In that case, I guess I haven’t gotten too far off track.

Despite the temporary setback, I can honestly report that I worked out twice during the first week of the year—I think. You should have seen me. I even broke a sweat while trying to figure out how to use the treadmill. After I finished, I thought I had really done something. I walked around the office ripping off my shirt as if I were Arnold Schwarzenegger every chance I could. Most of my coworkers just laughed and strongly encouraged me to put my shirt back on. However, my human resources manager wasn’t so fond of me standing on top of her desk and beating my chest as if I were Tarzan. She promptly wrote me up—AGAIN. I think she’s just jealous because she doesn’t have abs of steel like the ones I will one day have when my order comes in off eBay.

One reason I haven’t worked out is because I haven’t really been feeling like myself lately. Well, I haven’t exactly felt like Brad Pitt or Meryl Streep either, but I definitely haven’t been feeling like the Michael Rochelle you’ve all come to know and love. Last week I had a cold, so there was no need to run on the treadmill because I’d already burned plenty of calories running back and forth to the restroom. But even before that, for some reason, all I’ve wanted to do is go to work and then go back home and sleep. I’ve logged so much time on my couch recently that I think I’m up for some kind of world record. But before you start calling the authorities to report me as being depressed or off my medications again, that’s not it. I think I’m just a little burned out.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying, “Michael, you haven’t done a blog post in four weeks, you haven’t had any homework since Christmas, and your reality show, “For the Love of Michael,??? is on hiatus. Why are you so tired???? Well, for your information, I’ve had to put in a lot of extra time at the office recently. And because I’m a salaried employee, all those extra hours fall under a category of volunteerism that doesn’t count toward the community service hours I was sentenced to due to that one unfortunate incident I got into with someone’s grandmother over the last red scarf at that K-mart blue-light sale. I’m still embarrassed that I let that granny get the best of me. If only I had used my walker as a weapon like she did.

Anyway, another reason I may be feeling a little out of it is because school started back up last Wednesday, and I’m dreading this semester. A full 15 weeks of nothing but economics and statistics. How does one say “yuck??? in English? I know I should have a more positive attitude like Oprah suggested when I spoke to her last night, but as I explained to Big Mama O, she’s not the one taking the classes. There are like a million other things that I would enjoy more than 15 weeks of studying those two subjects. For example, I would rather wash the feet of 100 strangers with nothing but my navel and a toothbrush. Or, I would rather run a marathon with nothing on but a handful of strategically placed gift bows to hide all twelve of my private parts. I thought about including a diagram here, but then thought it would be unnecessary. I mean, we all have the same 12 or 13 private parts, unless you’re from Germany where you’re born with an extra three.

Speaking of being from Germany, I think I’m going to come up with a new and exotic place for me to be from instead of Baltimore. I have a few coworkers from Vietnam, a few from Africa, a few from India, etc., and those places all seem far and foreign. Nobody gets excited when I say I’m from Baltimore. For some reason, they always ask if I can show them my bullet wounds and whether or not I know how to read. When I tell them that I placed 2nd in a dramatic reading contest of “Jack and Jill??? during my senior year of high school, they then ask if I was on “The Wire.??? No, I wasn’t. But my mother was. I don’t remember the exact role she played, but it was either that really mean character, or she played that guy that walked up and down the street with a shot gun because it wasn’t too far of a stretch from what she does in real life. I always get confused, but I’m afraid to confirm because it’s not advisable to ask a person with a shotgun a silly question—even if that person is your mother.

If I could be from anywhere, I think I would be from Family Dollar or PetSmart. Why? Because no one else ever says they’re from there. When was the last time you’ve heard someone tell a story about their hometown which is on aisle 5 of the men’s department? Never. But I’m just being silly. I know that Family Dollar is not a country. I’m pretty sure Walmart is though. It’s bigger. And the cost of living there isn’t too expensive. They have everyday low prices. But if for some reason that doesn’t work out, I think I’ll be from Asia. I mean, people already compliment me on my Asian features anyway. They’re actually quite surprised when I explain that the lady who adopted and raised me in the basement of her home says that my birth mother told her I was either African American or European right before she signed over the documents to rent-to-own me. Who knew?

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.mikeyllo.com
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