As I write this, I am engaging in a reckless act of self-destruction — a slow-motion hara kiri. I am sitting. Sitting, medical researchers now tell us, is one of the worst things you can do to yourself, even though it seems rather natural. God gave us padding there, and someone — was it God, too? — has put chairs everywhere you go. How can you resist? But resist we must. In my office, two editors are heeding the latest advice and stand for the entire workday; a third rises to her feet for a portion of it. This is commendable, but just between you and me, I deeply resent them for joining the latest trend. Even in the midst of a 10-hour workday, I now feel like an indolent slug because I spend so much of it on my rear. Before long, sitting down while you work will subject you to as much stigma as smoking, or perhaps crystal meth addiction.
This strikes me as unfair. I seek to live only long enough to witness the Mets win one more World Series, and then to upload my consciousness to an Apple device so it can irritate my daughters in perpetuity. To buy time, I have already sacrificed so much. They said carbs would fatten and kill me, so I waved a tearful goodbye to pizza, pasta, and potatoes. I eat very little red meat. Nary a trans fat crosses my lips. I do not drink to excess, and exercise regularly. Every morning, I dutifully swallow a handful of herbs and supplements to slow my encroaching decrepitude. I even meditate occasionally (sitting). But now they've come for my chair — and yours. Shall we stand and surrender, or sit and fight?
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