If I ever write a fictionalized account of my time not working I’ve already got two potential titles: Domestic Economy (which I think speaks for itself) or I Wake Up Flexing. I’ve also got the title to the sequel. It’ll be called I’ll Stop Flexing When I’m Dead. The plots are a little vague, but they all involve a protagonist who is a stay-at-home dad without any kids and who wants to have a body builder’s body but even with all the free time in the world he can’t get into healthy eating.
They call it fiction for a reason, because this summer is all about healthy eating, Beast Style.
We’d just been laughing about the Beast’oun deck shoes: how absurd it was that they were the only footwear he’d brought to the cottage. I’d warned him to be careful while walking in the woods, over rocks and along slippery leaves. We were headed downhill back to the canoe, tied up to a tree branch and resting in the lake. While I steadied myself, I saw the Beast with his arms in the air like he just didn’t care, sliding down the escarpment on his butt.
In the sunroom, sipping on the first Aperol spritzes of spring.
Beast: How much money would it take for you to agree to murder someone?
Beast: The thing is, you don’t have to murder them yourself, you just have to pick somebody. And you’ll never be caught.
Foodie: I don’t know. Like, a $150 million?
Beast: I’d charge $1,800.
There are so many new and innovative restaurants in the city that I’m excited to try. So on Thursday, the Beast met me after work and we headed to the Keg on King St.
When he found me outside work, I’d just been ‘nized by a lovely young woman on her way to a Civic Action meeting hosted by Metro Morning’s Matt Galloway. “You should go!” she said to me. “It sounds amazing,”I said. “But I have to go to the Keg.”