Tuesday, June 22, 2010

A waist is a terrible thing to mind


It's sad, and it's true. The mind is the first thing to go. Time to tell a story on myself.
Just got home from work, and as per usual, let the dogs out to take care of their business. I went downstairs to throw a load of laundry in, and upon coming back figured I had better let the furbags in, as it is about 100 degrees out. So I do...and as Simon runs in, I notice he has a rather large "hanger on" sticking out of his poopchute. So, without thinking, I quickly step out into the middle of the yard, and call him back out in the hopes that he will run out before the poop falls off his backside and on the kitchen floor. So far so good, huh? Did I forget to mention the part where when I threw the load of laundry in, I thought I may as well wash what I was wearing?

The neighbors just have to love living next door to me, I tell ya. Opal was nice enough not to say anything as I quickly ran back in the house, but I'm sure she has to be wondering what I've been smoking, drinking, swallowing or injecting.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Metamorphosis


What do you do when life throws you a curve?

Experience has taught me the cliche "patience is a virtue" is a pretty wise concept. And the older I get, the easier it is to resist the temptation to ignore that wise little snippet.
Yet another indication that no matter how hard I may fight it, maturity continues to work its magic. Who knows, a fully functioning adult may yet emerge from the childlike cocoon that is me.

When I was younger, it was standard procedure to try to force things, jam my opinions down people's throats, make things that weren't going my way, be my way. The belief was that sheer force of will was enough. The truth is, life just doesn't work that way. To use a baseball parallel, you're sitting dead red, guessing fastball, and anytime a curveball, or off speed pitch is thrown to you, you whiff. Horribly. Like Willie McGee chasing a Steve Carlton slider. And in all likelihood, with this aggression, you cost yourself a lot of life's smaller pleasures. And for what? The possibility of a little instant gratification? Maybe one in every fifteen or sixteen efforts you hit a home run?

So, continuing the baseball theme, my more mature, and hopefully wiser self has gradually embraced the idea that you have to hang back, wait for the pitch, and if it's a strike, then smoke that sucker into center for a clean base-hit. And if it ends up out of the zone, then you just enjoy your at-bat, and take a walk...

Friday, June 4, 2010

Off the scale


Shrek here...out of curiosity, I went to a website to calculate my body's frame size. Ostensibly, this is because I know I have a large frame, but even given that, am always amazed at the height/weight recommendations they have for me. Namely, they like to tell me that because I am a "large" framed person, I should weigh no more than 222lbs. Now, there are several people that read this blog, that knew me back in the 80's when I did indeed get down to the 220's. And I looked like an escapee from Auschwitz. When I went to the doctor, he insisted that I gain at least 25 to thirty pounds.

So, I go on about this because of the following. Apparently, if you bend your arm at a ninety degree angle, and measure from bone to bone in your elbow, that tells you your frame size. A medium frame is between 2 7/8's inches, and 3 1/4. So considering the entire "medium" range is a mere 3/8's of an inch, if your elbow is 3 7/8 inches, thus an entire 5/8 inches larger than the upper end of the medium scale, does that mean you've blown the whole scale away? Have I moved two notches into the BONUS super large frame category? Should I indeed, embrace my life as an ogre, paint myself green, and start eating peasants? How best are they prepared? Boiled, with cabbage, onions, and hearty helping of garlic? Or maybe baked, with potatoes and parsnips?

Anyway, enough silliness. Operation normal sized me continues. Down 63lbs as of this morning. Another 45 to 60 or so to go. Unless I'm aiming for that perfect body weight, as recommended by the non-Andrew friendly charts!

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The long dark tea-time of the soul


In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2.55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.


To my dear friends, with their settled lives;

It is the metaphorical Sunday afternoons, those moments when you just have too much time to reflect, that bring you down. Optimism smashes to pieces, like water slapping off the rocks on a stormy coastline. The bright cheery thoughts fade into nothing, as you realize that the rest of your day, at best is likely to be spent doing the dishes, or, if you're really lucky, watching someone else do the dishes. Even the dogs can't be bothered to be entertaining on this late Sunday afternoon.

Invariably, thoughts turn to the dramatic, as you languish in the despair that is your own personal boring hell, and you envision yourself doing something great, magnificent...and then reality raises it's ugly head once again, as you're forced to acknowledge that even on your best day you couldn't throw a strike, let alone slip a fastball past Derek Jeter. Now, you're an old arthritic man, who considers it a fortunate day if you remember to zip up your pants before setting off to work.

All of my friends at school grew up and settled down
And they mortgaged up their lives
One things not said too much, but I think it's true
They just get married cause there's nothing else to do, so

I'm just sittin' on a fence


Yes my friends, you are getting old. Your life is dull, and your pleasures are fleeting. See, that's what you get for growing up!

Sincerely,

Peter Pan