Salad Lines In New York City Are OUT OF CONTROL Due To New Years Resolutions

NY Post- New Yorkers trying to make good on “eat healthy” resolutions are mobbing salad joints — leaving many [in] long lines cursing their radicchio-strewn diets.

“You guys can go f–k yourselves!” one very hangry businessman in a Patagonia puffer vest was overheard telling his colleagues at lunchtime on Thursday, as he ditched the 100-plus-long line at Chopt on West 51st Street, between Sixth and Seventh avenues.

“The line was outside the door and wrapping around the sidewalk,” she said.

“It’s a psycho line,” agreed another customer.

Ah, the week after January 1st. When delusional cupcake stuffers flock to gyms and salad joints to magically transform themselves into health warriors because of an arbitrary vow they made to themselves. It lasts a couple weeks until their willpower/cholesterol runs low, at which point a “cheat day” turns into a “cheat week” turns into “let’s try again next year.” We—the devoted few, the consistent practitioners—see this same phenomenon every year. Our churches (Sweet Green) and halls (Equinox) are packed to the gills with these lumbering, snoring-while-awake human pugs. It’s a dark time to be a super-sculpted guy.

I applaud these people for trying, I really do. But when your “new year, new me!” goals obstruct my path to spinach or a hex bar? Major problem, to which I have a solution: there should be gyms and salad stores for people who showed very little interest from September-December. Like the inverse of gun background checks! If you showed NO patterns of healthy behavior, we can’t let you join the regular gym. Instead, you get your own gym! Let’s build it in a warehouse or something (Lord knows they could use the space). Throw a couple reinforced treadmills and stationary bikes in there. Let them burn the place down for a couple weeks until, you know, nature takes its course and they’re back to drinking that popcorn butter through a squiggly straw for added fun.

This is another reason why January is the worst month of the year. Lots of people on Twitter tried to tell me that February is worse. First, it’s 27 fucking days—less than four weeks, idiots. These are the very people who don’t mind January because they’re blasting my core! and getting my knees to 90 for the first time ever. They’re full of hope and gumption. They’re excited about having to do more laundry due to their sweaty gym clothes. And then… beautiful February: when they’ve given up and they’re sad again.

I wish I could take the entire month of January off from salads and shoulder presses. I’d come back in Feb, when it’s all quiet and the gym is occupied by focused, superior beings again. But I won’t do that, obviously. Eating salads is a year-round way of life.