Day 79: This Is Your Brain On Richard Simmons

Making creative headway is a glorious feeling. You're in the moment and flowing, feeling positive about everything in your life. But then there's that don't-look-down moment when you think things are going too well and this joyous bliss can't last and the second you say something idiotic like that, well, poof. Pop goes your rose-coloured world.

Fear, anxiety, here we are again. It's not crippling, but it's the kind that keeps you pinned to your bed harder than a snooze-button overdose. The kind where, if you let it mess with you, leads to thoughts about changing your hair colour or maybe even breast size. Certainly not conducive to blissed-out creative flow states.

So, what do we do?

The six-steps-to-being-in-the-moment type articles you read in magazines will tell you to breathe. Take deep breaths, they'll say. Exhale your worries. I think that's rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. When your head is nattering at you like a half-drunk sister-in-law, deep breathing or any other kind of meditation exercise is just going to make it worse. Your mind has already become a toxic wasteland and these articles recommend you go ahead and hang out in a hostile environment. That's it, just ignore the gunshots and bloodcurdling screams. Breathe.

I've come to believe that the best way out of your head in a hurry is narcotics. You could try that ten-year-old package of NeoCitran, a bottle or two of Benadryl or a host of other household chemicals. But those may leave you feeling a little underproductive and although my recreational drug of choice is still NyQuil Cold & Sinus, the best way I've found to get the evil stepsister to shut the hell up is to feed her the soothing opiate of exercise-induced endorphins.

There are other ways to score endorphins, like having sex or laughing, but at seven in the morning it must be said that (a) very little is funny, (b) no one is sexy and (c) that tattooed kid on the corner selling eight-balls of the stuff doesn't start work until ten.

Exercise takes your mind off whatever is stressing you out by drawing your attention to the burning, ripping sensation in your thighs or the fat man wearing multi-coloured Spandex pants. I recommend working out in suburban gyms where your self-esteem won't be pummeled by the Lululemon-clad porn stars inner-city gyms hire to make you work harder. They are paid to have fat-free asses, look you up and down and laugh a little as they crank the elliptical up to 11.

You could listen to the terrible classic rock they pump in, but the only people who actually like that crap are serving time for petty theft and drunk-and-disorderlies. Better that you create your own ridiculously motivating playlist including songs like 'What A Feeling' from the Flashdance soundtrack or perhaps 'Straight Outta Compton' by NWA.*

It doesn't take long for the endorphins to kick in, but I will warn you exercise can be addictive. If you're not careful, you'll end up becoming one of those perky Fitness Is Fun people. My mother turned into one of those and we had her committed. She now teaches aerobics at the Happydale Home for the Mentally Infirm. She's doing well, thanks for asking.

Regardless, after getting all drunk on endorphins, I recommend grabbing a cup of strong coffee and hitting the shower (where ideas live). Remember this easy equation: Endorphins + Caffeine + Oxygen to the brain = Happiness, Productivity and Size 4 Pants.


*Jones Ink is not responsible for spontaneous fits of jazz hands or gang-related violence. Use at your own risk. Please consult a physician or psychic hotline before beginning an exercise program.