How many times can you spot the letter "e" in:
Caeleb Dressel reacts after winning the gold medal and breaking the world record in the Men’s 4 x 100m Medley Relay Final on Aug. 1 at the Tokyo Olympics.
I believe it was noting the condition of the Olympic athletes that prompted my wife to comment about my fading form.
I had gained a few pounds during the pandemic, so she wanted me to go back to the gym.
“I want you to look as trim and fit as Caeleb Dressel,” she said.
He’s the chiseled Olympic swimmer who just won five gold medals in Tokyo.
“Wouldn’t you be happier looking more like Caeleb Dressel and less like Larry the Cable Guy?” she questioned.
“But Dressel weighs 20 pounds more than me,” I argue.
“He’s 6 foot 3,” she counters.
It means I’m not too heavy, just too short.
Still, she insists I return to the gym and work off some calories.
She’s already hidden the TV remote in order to force me to get off the sofa once in a while. Apparently, she feels walking on a treadmill burns more calories than changing channels.
So, each morning, I drive to the gym, set the treadmill speed, and walk for 60 minutes.
The display confirms that a speed of 3.3 mph burns 5 calories each minute for a total 300 for the hour, the exact number I need to exhaust the calories in my breakfast, which consists of two eggs, bacon and buttered toast.
But my wife contends that it isn’t sufficient to have a deadlock in those stats. “You have to wind up burning more calories than you consume,” she argues.
I tell her it’s a noble goal and thank her for her support and concern, but explain that I’m totally drained after an hour on the treadmill, so there’s no way I could possibly extend my walk.
“I was referring to the bacon,” she says.
So I checked the calorie chart and discovered that if I substitute turkey bacon for the pork variety, I can knock two minutes off the treadmill.
But she insists my approach is wanting, underscoring her argument about achieving a calorie deficit.
That’s an unfortunate position because what she’s suggesting defeats the whole point of the treadmill, namely, walking for bacon.
“Are you saying no turkey bacon?” I question.
Her mandate was sounding less like the inspiration of a concerned partner, and more like the dictate of a prison guard.
So when I return from the gym, the warden hands me a bottle of water and tells me she’d be making a salad for my lunch, suggesting I can afford to skip breakfast.
So there I am, waiting for my lettuce, sitting in what feels like solitary confinement, in what is in reality my den but feels more like what they call “the hole,” in prison jargon, with only bread and water.
Except for the bread part.

user
The total number of "e"s in that passage is two hundred and forty-three.
assistant