Last Christmas in July, we had a party at work. It was pretty loose — there was plenty of Elaine-style dancing and even the boss got a few drinks in him. By the end of it, we were all having playful digs at each another.
I was accused of being “sedentary”, which of course is a euphemism for lazy, at which point I turned around and said, “I bet I could beat all of you in a race!” My drunken colleagues were foolishly up for a challenge that their sober minds would promptly cower from.
I may not be the fittest nor the fastest in the office, but I do have a secret weapon — a hyperbaric chamber. Melbourne workers are generally quite disinterested in exercise and do not keep in shape, but as I was putting forth this challenge, I thought back to my grandmother’s hyperbaric chamber which she uses to treat her diabetes injuries. I knew that with this secret I could beat any of my overfed and under-walked colleagues in a foot race.
The challenge was a 2km run on the athletic field. We were to make a day of it, and organised a month after the Christmas in July party. It was a Saturday. The non-participators stood by with the sausage sizzle, and the smell of slowly charring beef made my stomach rumble. While the others had been going for jogs every morning for the past four weeks, I had been “training” by spending 45 minutes every day in the hyperbaric chambers. Melbourne doesn’t have that many good jogging routes that are near me so I was quite content to be snug in my little chamber receiving my oxygen therapy. I was also feeling quite smug in the knowledge that they’d been working their butts off, pathetically, while I did nothing and won the race. I had my sausage afterwards and also won a “Least sedentary employee” medal. Woo.