Last night we were having supper and the kids were on about ghosts. Ghosts, the spirits of the dead living on in some other realm, stopping by occasionally to chew the fat or scare a wayward soul towards heaven. Ever the naysayer I proclaimed in all of the years I’ve spent with the dead as a funeral director in dark damp cold basements and at the stroke of midnight even, nothing. Feeling especially bold I began to audibly challenge any spirit or imp to visit me the following day and leave a sign of their presence, only to be quickly interrupted by the next contender for the control of the conversation, the devil in disguise.
The next morning the prior evening's conversations and my dreams are scrambled like the egg whites I should have eaten before heading to the gym. With exactly two minutes left in my cardio workout, I switch the readout on the screen in front of me, as I do every day, from distance traveled to calories burned. The number has been less since I quit the pre-workout, and today it’s 666 calories that I’ve burned, one hell of a job.