Only once in my life have I been a card-carrying member of a gymnasium (in lieu of exercising at home and on the cheap). It was only about two months that I had been making regularly scheduled, iron-pumping visits to the gym when I took a job at a casket company. It wasn't the sort of place where the employees wore formal attire and spoke in soft and soothing tones to bereaved people looking to purchase a loved-one-sized box. It was instead a factory, of sorts, where caskets were manufactured. Every ten-hour day found me engaged in sweeping the enormous wood shop, unloading truckloads of metal parts, pushing coffins into a giant warehouse where I stood them on one end in long rows, and/or creating 12 ft. orderly stacks of lumber in the woodyard (which is another long, back-breaking tale featuring behemoth Brazilian cockroaches). My every muscle was taxed and all the fluids in my body were expelled as perspiration. I would arrive at home and fall into a chair and, numbed by exhaustion, stare into space. Needless to say, the remainder of my pre-paid membership was never used. The mere memory of this is making me tired. I think I'll lie down.