This Time I Mean It

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

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Aging – The Ultimate Blessing

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I’ve heard tell that one indication of creative, intelligent people is that we get bored easily.

Whether true or not, I’ll gleefully use that as my justification for why I’ve traveled so many roads on my career journey. Whereby I haven’t necessarily been “a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king,” I’ve dabbled at many an occupation.

Because of that, it’s difficult for me to answer the question,

“What do you do for a living?” So, over the years, I’ve developed the reply, “I’m an ILEMAB consultant.”

“What’s that?” comes the usual reply.

“It’s an acronym: If it’s Legal, Ethical, and Makes A Buck, I’ll give it a shot.” It’s probably the most accurate description of how I earn my keep – and it has the added benefit of getting a chuckle.

There are advantages and disadvantages to our choices.

On the pro side of the ledger, my mishmash collection of vocational selections meant I rarely got bored; absorbed a boatload of skills, met an extensive diversity of people; traveled more than most — and had the autonomy to spend virtually whatever time I’ve wanted with friends and family. No regrets about those.

On the down side, many of my associates who chose more traditional pathways are now retiring. I know me; I could not have worked at one organization for decades; and wholeheartedly salute those who did – wishing for them wonder, peace and love on the next phase of their voyage. I am beyond delighted to see those I care about have the freedom I’ve had for so long. They so deserve it.

The distinction is that they’re receiving pensions – a security unknown to me.

Therein lies the rub. Nobody will ever throw a retirement party for yours truly; no assemblage of long-term co-workers with whom I’ve shared office space for the last 40 years will gather to bid me well as I move on; if I’m to own a gold watch emblazoned with “Congratulations Retiree!” I shall have to order it myself.

My “retirement” – whatever that is – will appear as a whimper, not a bang.

Don’t break out the world’s smallest violin; I’m not complaining, more accurately, I’m confused. I don’t even know what “retirement” looks like. I’m not the type to sit around on a rocking chair on the back porch, golf doesn’t interest me, and I don’t have grandkids on which I can dote (sigh…)

Yet, the time is nigh.

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No Longer in my Twenties

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Recently, I had a revelation: I am no longer in my twenties.

grumpy-old-man-with-cane

There were obvious signs prior to this new dawning.

For example, of late, in order to read small print, I must either remove my glasses or post the document across the room. Conversely, I must also use the “zoom” feature on my computer monitor to increase font size for virtually everything on screen.

I also must admit a tinge of guilt in continuing to list “brown” as my hair color on driver’s license applications. Rather, “gray with a small bit of brown remaining” is more appropriate. (Since there is not enough space to use this accurate description, I rationalize “brown” as being as honest as possible.)

Oh yes, one other indicator that I am no longer in my twenties is that I am the biological father of a 31-year-old. Even the most forward thinking and mature twenty-something would be hard pressed to have 31-year-old offspring.

Alas, despite this ever-growing chorus of facts, the dawning of my age did not fully appear until I weighed myself last week.

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Twenty One Years at Goal Weight

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I entered the planet at nine pounds 14 ounces.

Assuming that to be normal, thirty years later, as a newly minted father, I panicked when the doctor informed me that my firstborn weighed six pounds six ounces.

Looking me in the eye, attempting to calm my jitters, he replied, “Six-six is normal. I promise he’s fine.”

“But I weighed ten pounds when I was born!” I protested.

“I can’t help it if you were cruel to your mother,” he replied.

Moral of the story: I was born big, and from that moment, packed on the pounds, tipping the scales at ten pounds for every year.

To explain, I weighed 50 pounds at age five, 90 pounds at age nine, and 130 pounds when I was a teen. From there, I accelerated, reaching 230 upon entering high school — poor timing to say the least. Of the 1107 students in my class, I was the second fattest. Further putting this in perspective, that was in the day when childhood obesity was an oddity, rather than unfortunately as it can be today, quite common.

Kids are brutal, so what were supposed to be some of my best years were anything but. Girls ignored me; guys badgered and bullied me.

Physical education was the lowest of the low.

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Looking Forward to Getting Old

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old coupleAs children, we couldn’t wait to get older.

The first coolest thing was when our ages hit double digits. Then, something else new and exciting was always around the bend. At 13, it was my Bar Mitzvah. Sixteen brought a driver’s license; 18 ushered in the newly earned right to vote; 21 celebrated with (too much) champagne. There was always another reason to move on to the next year. Bring ‘em on. Line ‘em up! Don’t stop!

However as John Mellencamp lamented in, “The Real Life,”

It’s a lonely proposition when you realize/That there’s less days in front of the horse/Than riding in the back of this cart.

Aside from the fact that it should be “fewer days,” (sorry, I couldn’t resist) the concept is spot on. It’s macabrely humorous that as soon as one begins to realize he’s on the downward slope of the hill, vainly pumping the brakes, the calendar’s pages flip ever faster. When we were young and immortal, time crawled at a fossil’s pace. As the clock ticks louder, it also accelerates.

The result is many of us begin to poorly affirm what aging is about, viewing it negatively.

I mean, yeah, sure, there’s that “death thing” looming out there, which does cast a pallid gloom on post-middle-age. Yet, spending my remaining (hopefully) many years bemoaning a natural and unavoidable process seems a pretty rotten way to appreciate those very years, wouldn’t you say? Therefore, I thought it would be good to wrap my brain around the cool things about getting older so whenever yanked to the getting-older-sucks magnet, I can repel easier.

First, the hastening stride of time allows a much richer appreciation of “smaller moments.”

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Young Blood – A Trip to the Doctor’s Office

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Don’t get me wrong. I really like my doctor.

doctor

Although I only get 15 minutes in his presence per appointment, I understand that’s not his fault. More importantly, during that quarter of an hour, he really has a great bedside manner, remaining attentive and focused; he even laughs at my jokes. Yet, it’s still a very short amount of time for me to catalog every concerning twitch, itch, or anomaly I discover on this aging body. Nonetheless, he listens patiently and responds to every apprehension and I have yet to catch him sighing nor checking his watch.

Like I said, I like my doctor.

So at first blush, it might seem contradictory when I state that I did everything I knew how to do to avoid my most recent appointment. No invasive tests were on the agenda. I did not even have to fast the night before; I had done that the previous week. This visit’s express purpose was merely getting the results of my standard blood tests I took the week previously.

I arrived for my appointment a little early; hoping to get it over with. I purposely did not wear blue jeans because I knew they weigh more than my black cotton pants and also knew that — per standard protocol — the first place to which I would be escorted was the scale. I’ve commented before that I would prefer they placed it somewhere more discreet as it feels like it’s in the lobby with a lighted placard announcing, “Now weighing in…” and then proclaims my weight to everyone in the entire building. It’s not doing that of course, or so I’m told. But, as they say, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” It still does appear that way to me.

“Please step on to the scale,” said the nurse.

“One moment,” I replied, “I don’t want to weigh while wearing this jacket.”

She smiled patiently while I placed my coat on the provided rack.

“Excellent; now you can hop on board.”

“I’m not done yet,” said I, whilst removing my shoes and unbuckling my belt.

“You know, you don’t really need to take those off,” she commented.

“Maybe others don’t, but I do. I’m a professional at this.”

I accented the action by emptying my pockets of my keys, spare change, phone, and even my pen. (I would have discarded the used napkin buried in the bottom of my pocket but I was starting to feel a bit too anal-retentive.)

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

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