You hate the Ab Roller. What’s to like? In the days of The Inquisition, sadists passing themselves off as clergy invented devices like this to promote and spread the misery index among people already ravaged by every conceivable pestilence. But it’s a New Year, and you’re keenly aware that whatever quality of life you ever hope to enjoy rests squarely on the quality of your physiology. You have absolutely no control over anything outside of your own skin – certainly not the countless injustices and inequities that prove God miscalculated grievously and misaligned a screw here or there when He invented the human being. Nonetheless, being human, you lie back, put aside judgmental thinking and begin the monotonous core strengthening ritual, accompanied by the Gladiator soundtrack filling your senses with visions of suffering and heroism. Directly above, a 2×3 skylight frames a wintry sky through the skeletal remains of a massive oak that only two months earlier flaunted the greenest of canopies in the prime of life. Now, the naked branches, somehow gawky and awkward, wander skyward, shivering noticeably against a northeasterly draft. Hypnotically, with the image of Maximus Decimus Meridius throttling Commodus, you begin your own torment.  First, it’s 20 reps of rectus abdominus, segueing even more painfully into transversus abdominus. You roll up agonizingly for the first external oblique rep when you see it – there — tucked high at the tip of a scrawny twig – a rusty oak leaf, the last of its habitat, unyielding, refusing to throw in the towel in the face of all odds. This skimpy slip of life has endured it all  – drought, gale, torrent, ice and old age – and still it persists, like people you’ve known. The comparison of plant life to mortal beings isn’t all that far-fetched. A mighty oak is a planet of sorts, home to its own population. Like you and me, each leaf has a life expectancy. Some die in infancy. As adolescents, some fall victim to violence, ripped away from their neighbors. Mysteriously, others fall ill in their prime, then wither and perish before their time. The majority manages to hang in just as expected. But how then do you account for this solitary character challenging death? Could this one leaf be more physically fit? Silly question. Maybe even a bit deranged, son. Blame it on your internal obliques that by now are begging you to quit this foolishness. Delusional thinking and philosophical mumbo jumbo can never mask the harsh reality of grinding pain dished out by your friendly Ab Roller. Finally, gratefully, your back comes to rest, abdominal cavity at peace. Deep breath. Sweet relief.  Eyes closed, you see Maximus float through Heaven’s Gate to join his loved ones. And, yeah, your weary friend is still up there – like the last man standing at the Alamo. Eventually, of course, like Jim Bowie, this lone survivor will also fall and new life will follow. And make no mistake – solid abs or not — the same thing will happen to you. Bummer.