This Time I Mean It

Getting Past What Holds You Back with Baby Boomer Weight Loss Expert Scott 'Q' Marcus

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Celebrating Values

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Sometimes, I have a clear and direct idea of where I’m going before I start these columns.

I can see the way visibly laid out in front of me. Alas, those days are rare. Mostly, I stare at a blank screen until my muse makes herself known. Sadly, she might not stay. Other times, the column takes on a mind of its own. I start out going one way but end up somewhere else. Today is one of those days. We will commence in one direction, but — fair warning — will take a sharp turn. Fret not, however, I will bring you home.

That said when did answering the phone become an invitation for someone to sell you a car warranty, lie about an arrest warrant out for you, or threaten you because your computer was “messing up the internet”? We don’t pick up anymore unless it’s a number we sure-fire recognize.

Not paying attention, I made the mistake of sliding “accept the call.”

“How are you?” asked a heavily-accented man.

Yanked back into awareness, irritated by what I judged was going to be a scam, I indignantly replied. “I died last night.”

Waited long enough to hear his reply before hanging up; I heard him say, flummoxed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I find the delivered-without-thought question, “How are you?” to be disingenuous. Don’t get me wrong; when asked by someone who knows and cares about your actual well-being, it’s a sincere, kind query. Yet typically, we say it because, well, I’m not sure. I guess we don’t want to appear rude. However, asking a personal question when, in reality, you don’t want to take the time to hear the honest answer is indeed rude. Just sayin’…

Oft times, I’ll respond with an expression I learned from talk show host Thom Hartmann, “I’m great – but I’ll get better.” Some laugh, finding the retort clever, shattering the mold of what they expected to hear. Others have said, “Oh no! I hope you get better soon,” obviously not listening to the reply, but wanting to move on to their real agenda and avoid the unpleasantness of listening to someone’s ailments.

Yep, you guessed it; I’m a little cranky today. Shields up.

[Read more…]

Embarrassed

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Next week, I’m receiving my second injection.

Soon after, I’ll be “safe” (in whatever level that word implies). Being a responsible, patriotic citizen, I will continue to mask up and engage in protected behaviors until given the green light. At that point, be forewarned, I plan to hug strangers – simply to get back to the quota of hugs that have been so depleted during the pandemic. That said, I’m planning a road trip for fall. The excitement of visiting friends, seeing new locations, as well as actually going into restaurants has me eagerly anticipating the end of summer.

I used to travel a great deal; not always ending up in the manner I assumed.

On an important business trip to meet two potential clients in San Francisco, I wanted to look my spiffiest, so I purchased a suit and black leather, dress, wing-tip shoes. I distinctly remember they were stiff as new shoes can be — and had slippery soles — causing me to consistently walk with a light, self-conscious gait as if always avoiding stepping on something fragile. Mostly, however, the odd way in which I moved was due to the discomfort of the shoes while attempting to maintain my balance, and project an aura of confidence in my meetings; all the while continuously on the verge of having my feet slip out from under me.

Meeting number one was in a building at a higher elevation of one of San Francisco’s steeper streets, the type where they don’t parallel park due to the angle. Afterward, I exited the structure to go downhill. It had been previously drizzling; the sidewalk had a slick wetness. This, as one might expect, made walking in my leather-soled, brand-new, slippy-slidey shoes even more precarious.

I stepped out of the building, planting both feet on the pavement, and – voip! – my well-clad behind hits the sidewalk, gravity kicks in, and I embark rolling side over side down the hillside like a bowling ball zeroing in on pins.

Aside from being embarrassing, it was frightening; I couldn’t stop, eventually running out of inertia halfway down the block, where a couple of women, seemingly on their lunch breaks, witnessed what happened and darted down the hill to offer assistance. (Of course, they were smart enough to take off their shoes and run in stockings.)

“Are you OK?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said, humiliated beyond words. “I’m fine, just embarrassed,” I attempted to look dignified while wiping off bits of debris from my clothing and sitting in a suit on a wet sidewalk.

“We’ve all been there,” was the response.

I’m not sure I believed that; nonetheless, I thanked them generously and wished them well. They continued on their way down the hill.

After further dusting myself off, I stood up from sitting on the wet pavement, collected my wits, shook myself off, stepped forward, and – Gablam! – did it again! [Read more…]

Hanging Around Getting Fit

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There is confusion as to why the current pandemic’s virus is named “COVID-19.”

The CDC, on its website, explains, “In COVID-19, ‘CO’ stands for ‘corona,’ ‘VI’ for ‘virus,’ and ‘D’ for the disease.” “Nineteen” refers to the year the virus was discovered.

Not wishing to disagree with such an esteemed, well-respected, scientific organization but, in the same manner that the “Freshman 15” refers to the 15 pounds many first-time college students gain in their first year, the 19 in COVID-19 is, in reality, a reference to how much weight most of us gain while stuck in our abodes, gulping junk food, watching Netflix, and hoping to survive until 2021. After all, let’s be honest, if the apocalypse is nigh, does it really matter how many Twinkies I consume?

So, while commemorating “south of the border night” on my couch (a celebration in which I engage several nights a week), consisting of an extra-large helping of nachos and a Margarita (or two), I had to unbuckle my belt and was therefore painfully confronted with the fact that I was becoming a tad “thick around the middle.”

“Nah, not me,” thought I. After all, everyone knows that calories consumed to medicate feelings of sadness or anxiety don’t add pounds. Clearly, my belt shrunk. Hefting myself from the sofa like a nine-month pregnant woman struggling to rise, I waddled to the scale, only to be alarmed at the number flashing before me.

“NO! Can’t be,” said I, putting down the bean dip and wiping the melted cheese from my face, “Time for a new scale.”

“Honey,” I called out, seeking confirmation that I remained as svelte as a 27-year-old fitness trainer, “Am I putting on weight?”

<crickets>

“Honey? Did you hear me?” I bellowed again from the bathroom scale while contorting myself into various poses on the platform to lower the number. (None worked.)

From the kitchen, the garbage disposal activates, blasting forth an earsplitting racket; my wife shouting over the din, “Sorry dear, I can’t hear you. Talk to me later.”

Point taken.

Faced with an indisputable truth, I – being the motivator that I am – decided to immediately commence a plan to flatten my stomach. Eating fewer chips would be a good start, but I wasn’t quite “there” yet. Instead, opting to strengthen my arms and make flat my belly by pulling out timeworn exercise equipment stored in the back of the closet since the Carter administration. I lugged the “ab flattener” sit-up machine into the guest room, blew off the dust (coughed repeatedly), and located it in the center of the floor. Next, pushing aside old moth-ridden blankets, and beyond the tchotchkes in boxes, I yanked loose my ancient pull-up bar, secured it to the door jamb, and gave it a yank or two to ensure it could support my now-heftier bulk.

“Okay,” said I to myself, picturing six-pack abs within the week. “What is my strategy?”

[Read more…]

Wisdom from my Hearing Aid

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“Did you know that approximately one-third of all folks your age suffers from hearing loss?”

“What?”

Okay, before you jump on me for being insensitive to those who are hearing impaired, I am one of that one in three.

I also suffer from Tinnitus, which is described as a non-stop ringing in the ears. For me, it’s not a ringing; rather I live in my own private wind storm; there’s a constant hiss that serves as the soundtrack of my life. At times it’s a whisper, sometimes it’s a gale, yet it’s unrelenting. Most likely it’s the result of being a rock ‘n’ roll disc jockey from my teens into my thirties. Regrettably, it matters not how I contracted it, it makes itself known from the moment I rise until I fall asleep.

I thought that the unending whisper that accompanied me 24/7 was normal until I heard a public service announcement about it, raising my consciousness to its existence. Turning to my wife, I asked, “What do you hear when it’s silent?”

She looked at me as if I had two noses, perplexed,

“What do you mean, what do I hear when it’s silent? It’s silent. I don’t hear anything.”

“You don’t hear a hiss?”

“No, I don’t hear anything.”

Henceforth, I realized this was not the norm and began pursuing options to rid myself of it.

Although one will see ads for cures on social media and some experts claim that everything from Paxil to microdoses of LSD will alleviate the problem, there is no cure except patience and habituation, just getting used to it.

Once I became aware of my hearing issues, I also realized that I had to turn up the television to a deafening level, needed closed captions to follow the dialog, and annoyed the hell out of my life-partner by repeatedly asking her to speak up. Although vanity delayed me from seeking help, I finally decided that hearing better beat out the need to deny my aging and I was fitted for hearing aids.

They’re not your grandfather’s hearing aids.

[Read more…]

I am not getting older!

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Recently, a most horrifying discovery was foisted upon me: my eyebrows contain more gray in them than they do brown.

Yikes! how does that happens, being I’m not yet old?

After all, at 64 I’m just entering the second third of my life.

Apparently, others – such as my wife – have known of this solemn condition for quite some time and have kept it from me; obviously not wanting to burst my bubble by saving me from the knowledge that Father Time has been schlepping across my face for years.

“Honey,” I said while examining closely in the bathroom mirror the wiry, frizzy, randomly-aimed, string-like gray filaments that inhabit my lower forehead, “Did you notice that my eyebrows have turned gray?”

“Yes,” said she, in the same manner that one would respond to the question, “Did you notice that I have a nose on my face?”

“You’re just realizing it now?” she asked.

Sheepishly – and somewhat defensively – I responded, “Uh, yeah. I don’t pay too much attention to my eyebrows. Besides,” I added, seeking a rationale, “I wear glasses; the frames hide them.”

Trying to be empathic (but failing, I might add), she continued, “Your hair has been gray for twenty years. What makes you think you’d keep those Groucho Marx caterpillar-like things forever? You’re getting older; things change.”

She paused. “By the way, how come you’re just noticing them now?”

“My play,” I answered, as if that would clarify everything.

“Your play?” she echoed, perplexed.

“Yes, I had to wear make-up when on stage. I don’t normally do that. Staring that closely at my face, I noticed my eyebrows.”

“Oh,” she said. “Welcome to what women deal with,” and left the bathroom, leaving me alone to examine my facial terrain. Not willing to tweeze them, I did opt to trim them. Despite my years, I absolutely refuse to look like Andy Rooney used to; a bridge too far.

Okay, I get it. I’m aging – but I’m still in denial.

[Read more…]

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Scott "Q" Marcus 707 834.4090 scottq@thistimeimeanit.com

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