C’mon, one of those things may even be true. Consider the following, some of which may also be true…

I like to think that when it comes to desirable attributes, I compensate for what I’m lacking by over-developing others. Consider the blind person who has enhanced hearing, or that totally hot but seemingly deaf and dumb chick at the gym who doesn’t say hi back but smells good. My hallucination is that I make up for being cosmetically challenged in other, as-yet undiscovered ways- that my ugly-duckedness has been somehow swan-itized by an attribute of which I am unaware.

Until that discovery has been made, I’ll continue to work toward peeling away, pound-by-pound, the adipose that causes my body to eclipse all you beautiful people out there. I may not be pretty, but one day I’ll relish in the knowledge that when folks are ignoring the elephant in the room, it won’t be me.

Rock on.

Location:Imaginationland

 

You know what else is easy? Quitting. That’s right. I cannot count the times I started down a path and as a result experienced a level of success, only to quit and backslide back to (or beyond) where I was was when I started.

I believe ultimate success requires me to stick to what works to reach my goals- beyond meeting my goals. Duh!

Rock on!

 

“Where are my manners?

Steve, I’d like to (re)introduce you to your Ambitions. You remember them- those lofty goals you had every intention of relentlessly pursuing until they were achieved or the day you died- whichever came first. They’ve been hanging out well beyond the horizon for some time now and you never invite them to the party anymore. I mean, what the hell, you were going places young man!

But wait, did I say “young” man? You just aren’t one of those anymore, Steve, ol’ buddy. You’re on the downside of the half-century mark and slipping towards the abyss. You’re getting invites from AARP and senior pricing at the theater is no longer a pipe dream. I’m talking Golden Girl in drag my friend- just that you know who the Golden Girls were is a little telling, if you know what I mean.

Ok, Jiminy (yes, Jiminy is what I’ve named my conscience- that little imaginary wingman who keeps me from doing a Mary Poppins off the roof, or eating a jar of mayonnaise) I’ve heard just about enough and everyone knows that I believe guilt to be a useless emotion invented by my mother to remind me to call her on her birthday.

Besides, my Ambitions are right here in front of me, and they’ve always been invited to the party. It’s just that sometimes Life kind of has to be the life of the party and my ambitions are pushed off center stage for a minute or two until Life inevitably does the ol’ lampshade-on-the-head-pants-around-the-ankles trick and isn’t taken so seriously anymore. Then I’m all over my Ambitions, getting frisky, even making out a little. Hey, I can remember getting to 2nd base many a time, my friend. So, Jiminy, I’m glad you’re here. Pour yourself a drink and look around for Opportunity ’cause I’m lookin’.”

…and …scene

Obvously, the landscape within my skull is a rather muddy place– a murky environ that requires constant mucking. That is not to say that I don’t imagine imaginary conversations with imaginary characters who preserve my best interests– OK, I don’t, not really. The thing is, if I were to have these imaginary conversations each day at say, 10:35AM– well, they would probably go something like what I described above; a short, meaningless dialog followed by a tickle fight that leaves one one of us a little embarrassed when the other soils himself in a private area while riding on very public transportation.

P.S. Jiminy chided me for caving-in and having one of those new jalapeno burgers from Carl’s Jr. last week but also congratulated me for sticking with my exercise routine and dropping a pound over the course of the same period. Thanks, Jiminy- you glorious, imaginary bastard!

Rock on.

 

I’m rarely one to bitch about anything, least of all the asinine doings, sayings, and goings-on of others. I really don’t care what level of stupidity the collective “they” aspire to nor does it even register anywhere on my mental radar.

Just kidding.

Everything registers! I pay close attention to every morsel of stimuli that thuds my receptors. The thing is, it isn’t the others I am paying attention to– it’s me. I’m such a shlump mouth-breather by comparison to the rest of the population that I can only look in as opposed to looking out. Kudos to the collective on being handsome geniuses, one and all!

Moving on…

A benefit of our health insurance is an annual health screening, the purpose of which is to determine how uninsurable I am. Turns out, I’m still fairly healthy in the statistical sense and therefore our premiums are completely acceptable. Moreover, I’ve little more than an annual relationship (knock on wood) with my doctor thus far and most likely will die at my leisure– or perhaps in some horrific orgasm-induced jet ski accident (I haven’t decided yet).

An additional benefit of our policy is the use of a Health Coach– a nice enough lady who I’m sure means well, but is also a kindly sycophant who agrees with every contrived and obtuse thing I say and laughs at all my jokes (even when I’m intentionally unfunnier than my normal unfunny). She does an awesome job of sticking to a script- for which I can totally imagine the reasons for- liability, conformity, and simplicity.

An additional tic to her credit is that she has a wealth of information backing her in the form of a fairly comprehensive website. This leaves me to surmise that her prime directive is part cheerleader, and part website tour guide. She is pleasant, supportive, and knows her links. I appreciate what I’m guessing is her function, but don’t think I’m getting much more than a bi-weekly verbal pat on the back for every unintelligible grunt emanating from my gob. I confess that I’m unworthy of her time.

The cool thing is that I’ve been diligent with most everything that has worked for me in the past and I am showing progress. I’ve been monitoring my blood pressure and weight with OCD tenacity. So far I’m down 8 pounds since my health screening and I’ve consistently kept track of my intake and exercise. I continue to alternate between the gym, track, and bleachers throughout the week and all has been pretty beneficial.

Result: I feel energetic and like I’m the master of my domain, king of my castle. Bonus: my mom thinks I’m special.

Rock on.

 

I heard said once that, “A man at rest is impossible to start.” Hell, I probably had that on one of my t-shirts a millennia ago. I don’t know, but I do know this; “at rest” is not a good way to be when I need to drop some weight. The thing is, I recognize a pattern that has developed over the course of the holiday season, a pattern of consumption.

It is still amazing to me, in light of all the introspection and self-analysis that the past few years have been absolutely filled with, that I couldn’t see this one come and somehow squelched it before it became a deafening crescendo of self-loathing and regret. Sure, a cookie here and some candy there may not seem like much incidentally– but gob-stuffing every time I pass a morsel creates a pattern that’s sure to end with me curled into the fetal position under my desk, eating my feelings washing it all down with a nog of tears.

So… the New Year has fully begun, vacations are over and our oven has gone cold. No more platters of cookies, bars, brownies, or other morsels of belt-busting, insulin-whoring goodness. No more readily available obesity-inducing clumps of heavenly health sabotage to indulge in or any more pie for my piehole. Time to create some new patterns.

Rock on.

 

Do they make a difference? With cold and flue season upon us, I hope so. The second-to-last thing I need is to get sick. Illness totally mucks up my day. Want to know what the “last thing” is? Just ask.

Regardless, my urine has never been so gloriously amber.

Rock on (for the holidays, especially).

Via: Canada Drug Center