Month: June 2009 (Page 1 of 2)

“Yes Man” was an entertaining couple hours for Kyle and me Saturday night. The plotline takes a “no man,” (Jim Carrey) a guy dodging life, and turns him into a “Yes Man” responding affirmatively to everything after a life-changing experience at a “Yes” seminar. The film had some hilarious moments, but also got me thinking about saying “yes” more to opportunities in life’s playground.

Early in the movie, Carrey’s protagonist ignores phone calls (totally me) just to avoid talking, but as he renovates, answering leads to opportunities. Today I answered two personal calls often ignored in the past and both were from callers needing some help. They were challenging in different ways, but had I not answered, personal histories would have been altered, likely not for the better.

Saying “yes” today didn’t lead to a fateful romantic meeting or comic movie moment, but my instinct tells me choosing to engage helped others, and I feel some affirmation knowing that.

As I continue descending the sliding scale, down in the distance I see an intermediate goal aligned with the end of our “Biggest Loser” contest at work. My weekly goals are set in a “Weight Tracker” spreadsheet as are the weekly standings. From 6th place (down 4.2%), victory is attainable, but I’m not sure my -15.6% goal will get me there. All but a couple of people ahead of me really don’t have that much poundage to shed, so it’ll likely end up a two or three man race…

So far the only cheating I’ve done is a sourdough roll with butter while I worked from home last week. Single, reasonable portions are my key and they have been pretty easy to stick to. Temptation and fridge door dancing have been tempered with a single thought. “Everything in there but water has calories.” As I over think this thing, what concerns me most is a sub-conscious fight to retain the body type I’ve had for over 40 years, and if so, why?

My early memories of self-image probably began in junior high school when a school shopping trip permanently traumatized me when my mom insisted on perusing “husky” pants. I rationalized “fat” with “big” and thereafter pursued the “good” of being big, most prominently as a “power hitter” in baseball. That carried me through the ages of Little League, Babe Ruth League, High School, college and beyond. In the years since, I’ve always worked out and weight trained, partly to retain a strong, athletic, “big guy” image. As the years have padded the reflection, I’ve been blinded to its reality and of the metrics inflation glaring up from under my feet.

So I wonder, “Do I fear losing myself to a new, slim version of me that I’ve never known?” A little research turned up an article by Tracy Rose called, “Self-Sabotage – Reasons Not to Lose Weight.” In addition to the one above, she cites several methods of self-sabotage relevant to me:

• Letting fear of life without the fat barrier get the best of you.
• Being afraid of how you’ll respond when people show they are attracted to you.
• You won’t be able to use fat as an excuse to stay on the sidelines of life anymore.

I don’t know why “fear of damaging my relationship with pizza” didn’t make the list, but I do know the Neapolitan is pretty pissed off at me right about now… Down is an interesting journey.

Michael Jackson influenced my life at 10, 25 and now at 50.

I’ve never owned a Jackson record. I didn’t have to. My “Summer of 69” and several after were spent at Revere Beach with my family and 680 WRKO AM. Back then there was no “FM” and ‘RKO DJ’s Dale Dorman, J. J. Wright, J. J. Jeffrey, Shadoe Stevens and Frank Kingston Smith played the hits all day long. Of course those boys were flipping vinyl platters back then and the songs of the Jackson Five were the soundtrack to the 1970 season. While we broiled, swam the not so crystal waters and dined on Kelly’s Fish n’ Chips, Michael and his brothers poured out of transistor radios in multi-stereo up and down the beach in varying quality. Of course the highlight of that summer was seeing a 34C escape its bikini island prison to bask glowingly in the mid day sun, even for just a second… but I digress.

The Jacksons and other Motown acts seasoned my musical tastes, but no self-respecting member of the KISS Army would buy into the disco lie, so I was spared the embarrassment of that era… until 1983. Out of college and waiting tables at the old “John Martin’s Manor” on Route 1 in Saugus, I donned dark pastel shirts, thin black leather tie and red (very red) “Members Only” jacket to hit the floor, but with conditions. I wouldn’t dance to the old disco hits I rejected years earlier, but in 1983, one could dance to Prince, Talking Heads, David Bowie, and of course Michael Jackson. Everybody got up for “Billie Jean.” I’m not sure if I would have allowed myself to be into Mike without it, but dammit, he had Eddie Van Halen playing guitar on “Beat it” and he looked tough in the video, so I rationalized and jumped in.

As a parent raising young children in 1993, the abuse allegations were pretty sickening, but I remember thinking he was just a kid in an adult’s body. I recall his 1988 Grammy performance of “Man in the Mirror.” At the time I was amazed at the emotion he projected and with his constant physical transformations over the years, I have no doubt he hated what he saw there. Some speculate he saw his father and wanted that reflection removed. Anyway, I guess we’ll never know the many mysteries of Michael, but those child charges will always stain the trademark white glove.

Now, only a few months older than me, Michael Jackson is no more. Game Over at 50. The sad end of his life seems normal, another “Candle in the Wind” moment. It’s as if the steep trajectory of his existence had to end in self immolation, like a soaring rocket lighting the sky and spirit, only to lose power, tip awkwardly downward and explode. The dead at 50 thing is just another reminder of mortality and an additional nudge to live a healthier lifestyle.

Thanks for everything, Michael.

Those lyrics are stuck in my head, and since they’re not the title of a song, it’s a bit more challenging to find them on the interconnected network. Find them I did though and Mad Season’s “River of Deceit” was a 1995 song that once propelled me around the one mile odd oval at Fitchburg’s Coolidge Park. Anyway…

Other than obvious health benefits like reducing chances of heart disease, stroke (the bad kind), Type 2 diabetes and cancer, there are other bennies like:

• Better nutrition for the family – I buy the food, so Megan, Kyle and Maddy are learning to love things like baked haddock, spinach salad with fresh roasted beets and goat cheese, mangoes, avocados, and sautéed beet greens. These fine foods have taken the place of corporate slop from giant agribusiness conglomerates.
• Less money for giant agribusiness conglomerates – IBID
• Less stress on fingers – It’s much easier to fasten pants when you’re not trying to hold back a glacier of fat.
• Better visibility driving – I can see much better now that I’m not sunk six inches into the front seat of my car.
• More roomy seats in coach – I appreciate that as I’ve lost weight, the airlines have increased seat size. Thanks Southwest!
• Save money on clothes – Soon I’ll be able to wear all the clothes I grew out of. Sadly, they’re from the 80’s.
• Less wear and tear on your mattress – Yep, with less crushing weight on your coils you’ll no longer feel like you’re sleeping in a foxhole. This benefit extends to anyone between you and your coils…
• Once again, women are right – The boobs are the first to go!

Tonight after work I picked Maddy up at her Grammy’s. Mommy Megan was attending a wake for yet another young victim of heroin. Like too many others, there won’t be a tomorrow for him.

My little grand-daughter was happy to see me, but sad to leave her “Ky-Ky.” She doesn’t quite get the Kyle splitting time at Grammy and Papi’s… So with it just the two of us, two words ruled: ice cream. “Wanna get an ice cream, baby?” She smiled and wiggled affirmatively in her car seat. After a while we were trading, “Who wants an ice cream?” for “Meeeeeeeee!” Patiently, Maddy waited while we hit the bank and the dry cleaners before arriving at the Cherry Hill Ice Cream Barn. Even in a kiddy cone dish, “Extreme Chocolate” kicks serious ass, blending dark chocolate ice cream with equal dark dashes of fudge and chocolate chunks… Yeah. I really wasn’t falling off the fatty wagon, but in case I needed a reminder, the one piece picnic table literally sank underneath us and tipped over on us. We, and the Extreme Chocolate were unhurt…

After a “I don’t want to get back in my car seat” dispute won by me, we headed home for jammies and a dinner consisting of fresh salad and chicken sausage with multi colored peppers and pale Vidalia. As I cooked, Maddy visited often, leaving the comfort of her soft pink and fluffy bean bag chair and “Dora” to give me hugs and kisses… and to beg like a puppy with her mouth open for salad tomatoes. When I asked if she was ready for bed, she shook her blonde curls East to West, but curled up in my arms. I tried to reason with her about how she loves her bed and her blankie and the nice music (WCRB) softly filling a little corner of her room. She hugged me tight in what I incorrectly interpreted as agreement. I put her into her white crib and said softly, “no crying now. Papa wants Maddy to be happy, not sad.” She looked at me with her big blue eyes brimming with contentment. We had a nice couple hours and Madison Olivia had another fun day of breakfast with Papi, mommy time, school with her friends, and after-school with Grammy, Papa Scott and her Ky-Ky.

After about 10 kisses and another big hug, I said “I love you. Goodnight,” and left Maddy’s room, shutting the door behind me. Immediately, the sound of crazed prehistoric raptors ripped at the door… Strange, I thought. Why does she cry? My feeling in the moment was that she just doesn’t want the days to end. It was as if she were crying out, “Nooooo, Papi! I don’t want this day to end! I don’t want any of this to end!” Me neither, baby. Me neither.

A very crappy meeting today had me stressed out and ready to eat my way calm when I walked through the door tonight. I paced while whining to Megan and swallowing a nectarine whole like a snake, pit intact. As the small lump slowly slid visibly though my throat, I refused to give in and instead threw on running stuff and headed to the new, spongy crimson track at Fitchburg State College.

About ten trodden steps into only my second quarter mile, I pulled the calf muscle in my right leg. The sad fact is my calves can’t take the pounding at my current weight. Whatever. I proceeded to walk 11 more laps at a strong pace, went home and ate a small meal. I won this battle, but there will be many more. I also cared much less about the whole work thing.

It’s not heroin, booze or crack, but food consumption can me a mother… to control, but if I’m going to have a healthy “back nine” to a century, I’ve got to. There are already benefits. A pain in my side has disappeared, clothes are getting looser, and I can almost see my… OK, I’m kidding about that. I’ve always been able to see my feet. Oh, and the nectarine… I took some bites.

Me: “…You only became what we made you.”
Kyle: “Dad, that song is sticking in my head.”
Me: “Do you know who does that song?”
Kyle: “Who?”
Me: “Yes.”
Kyle: “Yes does that song?”
Me: “No, Who does it.”
Kyle: “I don’t know. Who?”
Me: “Yes.”
Kyle: “Yes does it?”
Me: “No, Who.”
Kyle: “Dad, I’m not playing this.”

Yesterday morning I heard an NPR report on “the hookup,” a typical sexual encounter among 20-somethings today. These kids are more comfortable with banging than bonding, in fact they tend to avoid real intimacy. Sure, there’s been the “one night stand” forever, but this social swing is without negative connotations of the past. Hook up with it.

As I listened, the stereotype in me thought, “I was born in the wrong generation,” but immediately I realized and accepted that I’m the outdated spinster with hang ups about sex. My Über self jumped into the passenger side to channel Freud and we played “In Treatment” for the ride to work.

• Me: “Well, growing up, my single mom played dad. I had no sisters and when I was in grade school, neither did my close friends. I didn’t learn what girls were about.
• Dr. Freud: “Go on.”
• Me: “Then there was the time some neighborhood girl chased me during a squirt gun fight. I slipped on the plastic of a broken weapon and sliced my eyebrow wide open on the top of a chain link gate. I was a bloody mess. That was traumatic.”
• Dr. Freud: “I see.”
• Me: “Anyway, I didn’t have a real girlfriend until I was a high school sophomore, and she claimed to have done some spell to get me, so I’m not sure what effect that’s had.”
• Freud: “Tell me more.”
• Me: “She was a ‘good Catholic girl’ and we dated for the rest of high school. Mostly I remember her saying ‘I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.’ It was kinda like that ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’ Meatloaf song, except ‘STOP RIGHT THERE’ always had me out between third and home.”
• Freud: “Meatloaf?”
• Me: “It’s not important. The point is it got cemented into my head that sex was something forbidden and something girls didn’t want.”
• Dr. No Help: “Continue.”
• Me: “Then I got to college.”
• (At this point the doc shifted in his chair and leaned in as if to say, “finally this dolt is gonna get laid.”)
• Me: “During ‘Rush Week’ a Junior co-ed from the town next to my hometown pounced on me and for the next year or so treated me like an animal in ‘La Fiesta De Los Vaqueros.’”
• Dr. Schlomo: “I don’t speak Spanish.”
• Me: “It’s a rodeo, Doc.”
• Freud: “Ah. That was a joke.”
• Me: “So, listen, Doctor… It’s now years later and I still think of sex as the forbidden fruit. Why can’t I just discard all this baggage and… you know… Get busy.”
• My Ex-Therapist: “Oh, look at the time. We’ll have to pick this up next week.”

I’m reading about how “Big Pharma” and “Big Insurance” lobbyists are working hard to gut the “public option” in any healthcare bill, thereby preserving their gluttonous gorging of you and me via over-medicating and over-charging. What I’m not hearing is how a public health insurance option would free millions of US workers currently working in corporations largely because they need the benefits. I believe a huge wave of entrepreneurial productivity would crest in our economy if these anchors were severed, not to mention the benefit to the businesses themselves from a reduction in their healthcare costs. Isn’t the legacy of healthcare costs one of the financial big drags that helped GM spiral into bankruptcy? And speaking of bankruptcies, a recent report suggests 2/3 of all personal ones are due to healthcare costs…

Would you consider a career change if maintaining your personal or family healthcare benefits were of no concern?

There are no children or grandchildren here this morning, so I’m breaking the silence with some key-pecking of random, um, stuff.

• Why is Liz Cheney given a public broadcast forum to reiterate and spin the old man’s lies?
• After seeing Carolina beat a good Bruins team and then broomed by the storm-resistant Penguins, the Detroit Red Wings must be one great hockey team.
• An old, dear friend is in town over the weekend. Last night we shared a laugh over a description of “the old days.” “When I could, I did.”
• Longish drives alone usually involve an album selection from the iPod. As I meandered last night I wondered, “What didn’t Reprise Records hear when Wilco delivered “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot?”
• Losing a few pounds is wonderful refreshment to ones state of mind.
• I know it’s an overused baseball cliché, but when he’s on, John Lester’s curveball is filthy.
• Why have so many of my peers never ventured from the “classic rock” period of the 60’s and 70’s?
• I don’t know if there’s a more beautiful sound than that of a young mother playing with their toddler during bath time. (The child’s, not the mother’s…)
• Maybe it’s on kid radio, but Madison Olivia has joined the Copetas boys in the public performance of “Tinkle tinkle, little stah…”
• I worked all through yesterday’s beautiful day and was really into it. Maybe the work is about more than health benefits for my family…
• “Boots” is a scary, bug-eyed monkey on “Dora the Explorer,” and I think he’s s drug dealer, but Maddy loves him.
• Finally, I had a memorable dream this week that begs for interpretation. Working in my yard below a retaining wall, I looked up and saw a woman I knew a few years ago. She looked older, but was essentially the same blonde, graceful figure I remember, and she was looking unemotionally down at me from behind a trim black business suit. Before I could say anything, I had to spit out a mouthful of safety glass, the little bits that are created when a car window shatters. However, my projectile was smoothed, seemingly polished by years in an unyielding surf.

Anyone?