This Time I Mean It

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

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Kiss You Every Night

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The weather was made to order; as if purchased from a postcard factory specializing in perfect-day clip art.

An unbroken clear blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon, white downy cotton clouds drifted lazily without hurry across the overhead vista, draping fleeting patches of cool shade upon the celebration and its attendees who came together to send off the newly married couple into their lives together.

As they stood face-to-face beneath the canopy, holding hands, the minister raised her head from the couple and looked toward the crowd;

“The couple has written their own vows which they’d like to share.”

He could hardly hear what she said; the sound of his heart pounding too loudly in his ears. When she finished, he, with shaking hands, pulled a thrice-folded sheet of paper from inside his charcoal-grey tuxedo pocket. Looking deep into the brown eyes of his beloved, desperately attempting to prevent his voice from cracking, he croaked out his pledge.

“Today, in front of friends, family, and God, I am marrying my soul mate. I know not what lies in our tomorrows. Yet, no matter that, I promise to you that I will love you deeply and without reservation in every manner in which I know. I shall love you for the remainder of my days and beyond. In all that time, I commit to honor you for the person you are and not try to change you, as there is no reason to do so. you are already of my spirit, interwoven through my essence, closer to me than my breath. I ask nothing of you in return except to be with me. And I promise as each day fades into yesterday, before I sleep, that I will gently kiss you good night and thank the Universe for your presence. When we agree, I shall kiss you with gladness. Should we differ, I shall do the same. In sickness, my kiss will heal. In good times, it shall celebrate. I will – through joy and sorrow, illness and health, poverty and riches – forever remain by your side, ending and beginning each day with you and with a kiss.”

A beam of sunlight reflected from the gold ring as he placed it on her finger.

Faintly, he heard applause and cheering, noting the soap bubbles as they floated to the heavens over the two of them as they walked back up the aisle, drifting in their thoughts as the clouds and bubbles above.

Together they knitted their story through the fabric of time.

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Looking Back – And Looking Ahead

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The holidays were behind her; decorations stuffed in the attic until next year.

She liked gussying up the living room every December, but there was also a sense of relief once the house was restored to a less chaotic, more familiar décor.

Breathing in the return to normalcy while sitting on a weathered wood bench on the back deck, a cool breeze gently tussled her hair; causing her to pull tighter around her neck the red fleece sweatshirt; raising the zipper high to help block the chill. With both hands clamped around the mug of hot tea between her palms, she savored its radiance as it emanated from the ceramic, warming not only her hands but her soul. Try as she might, she had not been able to find a flavored tea that replaced the bold satisfaction of morning coffee, but tea didn’t impact her stomach unfavorably. “Ah, the sacrifices one makes to Geras,” she thought, amusingly surprised that she remembered the name of the Greek God of Aging.

She sighed and redirected her attentiveness to the untidy back plank fence bordered by weeds attempting to reclaim their space. “The back yard really needs attention,” she considered, but knew there were yet several more weeks of winter and nothing would get done until the gray cleared and the rain stopped.

“No need to concern myself with that now…” Her thoughts drifted and she trailed, letting them lead wherever they might stroll.

“Another new year,” she mused, holding tighter the mug, hoping to claim a bit more heat. She pondered what was in store for the coming months.

She didn’t make resolutions; they were merely repeating the unkept promises she of last year; as she tried to catch up with those from the year prior, which were actually tasks undone from the year before that. At some point, why bother? “Just do your best and keep moving forward,” was as close to a New Year’s resolution as she came.

Yet, the newness of another January was not lost on her. With the changing of the calendar, there came a freshness, a bloom of new possibility for the time ahead. A clean slate was laid out in front of her, what would she do with it?

It was getting harder to say she was still “middle aged;” after all, few folks make it to 120. Was this where she expected to be in her sixties? She contemplated that for a moment and realized she didn’t have an answer. Was it a myth that some kids knew exactly who whey wanted to be from their first day? That had never been who she was; instead following a more meandering road.

“Retirement, what a concept,” she thought.

Many of her close friends, after having spent decades in a nine-to-five, walled off behind a cubicle; were now starting to collect pensions. Some were traveling, or spending times with grandkids — or both. Others pursued long-hibernating passions they had put on hold since their twenties. A twinge of envy flittered across her emotional horizon; there would be no retirement party for her, her course would continue until she decided it was at its end. And even then, what would that look like? Would she simply wake up one morning and declare, “I’m now officially retired,” awarding herself a watch and a cake?

“Did I really choose this?” she asked herself, “Or did I just let it happen?”

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she recalled the choices that brought her to this place. What if she would have finished college instead of pursuing her craft? How about if she had married someone wealthy? Everything would have been different, she pondered, a pinch of melancholy seasoning her mood.

A song drifted across her thoughts, something about a woman who died and was sweating her interview with Saint Peter, who was going to look up in some colossal journal every decision — good or bad — that she ever did, and then decree where she will spend all eternity. “Will I have done enough to get into Heaven?” the singer wondered. Enter the chorus: “There’s nothing I can do about it now.” Might as well relax; it’s too late to change it.

“Yep, nothing I can do about it now,” she reminded herself and exhaled deeply the tension that she didn’t realize she was even carrying until that moment.

Whether planned or not, no one could argue that she was her own woman; traveling her own road; pursuing her own dreams; following her own uncharted course. She assumed there yet more twists and turns ahead; in those lie possibilities and dreams. “Who knows what’s in store? I might yet be in for some exciting times.”

Her elderly orange cat, tired of being ignored, hopped onto her lap, brushed its head against the warm mug and snuggled into her lap, purring loudly. Transferring the mug into one hand, she stroked the cat’s fur as they both stared out into the dreary, unkept lawn.

“Life is good. Thank you,” she said to no one in particular, and smiled as she sipped some tea. “Not a bad flavor at all…”

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is the CRP (Chief Recovering Perfectionist) of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com. He is available for coaching, speaking, and reminders of what really matters at 707.442.6243, scottq@scottqmarcus.com or www.facebook.com/ThisTimeIMeanIt.

Perfect Moments

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It’s 11:43 PM, the red LED numerals broadcast into the dusky room from the clock on my nightstand.

Teeth brushed and clothed for sleep; I am ready to end another hectic day. While sitting on the edge of the mattress, assessing the activities of the last 18 hours, I am aware of my dog, Willie, snorting and grunting and snoring in his bed, dreaming of chasing cats across our back yard. Speaking of such, our oldest feline, Tiger, has assumed his nightly position, curled up at the foot of the mattress, bogarting far more space than is necessary. (I’m consistently amazed how an eleven-pound feline can manage to hijack half the bed, causing my wife and I to hang on to the edges so we don’t tumble off.) Both kittens, Oreo and Hobbs, sleep soundly on perches in the guest room.

A streetlight, noticeable from our bedroom window, doesn’t shine directly inside; it’s not glaring; more of a faint glow that lightly crawls — just barely — over our neighbor’s roof, allowing for a vague pale light which scarcely illuminates the contours of our room. It’s rather comforting, providing just enough illumination to allow navigation alongside the side of our bed before I slip under the blankets. Upon doing so, laying on my left side, my soulmate, my wife — who went to bed an hour before me — snuggles up behind me (careful not to disturb Tiger). She drapes her right arm over my waist, nestles her face into the back of my neck and falls back to sleep. Reaching my right hand behind me, I pat her on the leg and whisper – so as not to wake her – “I love you.”

A light breeze slides through the screen, caressing us both as we drift off into the waiting arms of Hypnos, the God of Sleep. Before I do so, I make a mental note:

THIS is a Perfect Moment.

I’m aware that it won’t last. I know that in the future, we’ll be thrust into situations unwanted and unpeaceful; yet, right now, this instant, in the present tense – EVERYTHING is as good as it can ever be.

My last conscious thought for the day: Grateful beyond words.

Several weeks ago, I wrote a piece about “being where your feet are;” staying in the present, realizing that the vast majority of time, I couldn’t really ask for more. In the day-to-day hustle-bustle, clang-bang, slammed full of appointments and concerns, I don’t think I’m the only person who forgets how fortunate I really am. My health is fundamentally fine. I have the love of a family and the friendship of countless others. Where so many are shelter or food insecure, I afford my mortgage and keep my refrigerator well stocked.

Could it all change tomorrow? Sure. But, if worry were a cloak of protection, nothing would ever harm us.

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Get Your Hopes Up

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In my former career, there was an adage, “You can tell how successful a DJ is by the size of the trailer behind his car.”

Since the logistics of moving oneself to a new city is considerably easier than moving a city to where one broadcasts, disc jockeys were nomadic. My personal story brought me to where I now live after bouncing around the west, “playing the hits” at radio stations ranging from Provo, Utah to Palmdale, California.

In order to secure new work, one would send out five-inch reel-to-reel tapes (um, remember, this was the seventies) to radio stations posting in trade magazines who were seeking “air talent,” which is what we were euphemistically called. Tapes consisted of an hour of one’s show with the music omitted so the prospective program director could hear skill level and style.

For most, the usual career progression was to start out as weekend fill-in jock on a small market station and little by little climb the rungs, hopefully ending up at a major market in a prime-time slot (referred to as a “drive time”).

After working as afternoon drive in Redding for a few years, my roaming inclination was engaged and I was sending tapes to stations across the country; willing to hitch up my trailer at a moment’s notice and go wherever anyone was willing to have me.

Portland called!

I was being considered for a weekend slot at a 50,000-watt AM clear channel rock station with an extended reach. The possibility was both exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Said my therapist, “How are you feeling about your prospects?”

“I’m nervous. I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

“Why would you not want to get your hopes up?”

“Because if do — and then I don’t get the gig —  I’ll be disappointed.”

He paused, nodded thoughtfully, and then asked, “So, how will you feel if you don’t get this job?”

“Disappointed,” I replied, “I think it would be really great to be on a big station like that.”

“But I thought you weren’t getting your hopes up,” said he.

“I’m not.”

“But you’re still going to be disappointed?”

That loud knocking you hear is paradox banging on the door.

“Well, yes, I guess I am. I’m afraid that it won’t go the way I want.”

“A couple things,” he began,

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The Careful Use of Words

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Limericks are humorous, frequently risqué verses of three long and two short lines that rhyme in an “aabba” pattern.

They were popularized by Edward Lear, in the late 19th century. (Fun fact: It is said that the term, “limerick” is from the chorus sung between improvised verses from the song, “Will you come up to Limerick?”) When done well, limericks use puns, spoonerisms, and double-entendres. The earliest known American limerick (1902) is:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.

Putting words together in playful patterns is fun. Remember the long-standing children’s poem:

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t very fuzzy, was he?

Another example of linguistic mischievousness was a novelty song from World War II:

Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey.
A kiddley divey too, wooden shoe.

It’s more fun to say than any sense it appears to make. However, the bridge of the song explains:

If the words sound queer and funny to your ear,
a little bit jumbled and jivey,
Sing ‘Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.’

Okay, it’s antiquated and trite – but c’mon, it’s amusing; admit it.

How we arrange words gives us a sense of joy and satisfaction.

Say “Aluminum Anemone” out loud. Go ahead. No one’s listening. Notice how it feels on your lips? No, it doesn’t make sense; it’s just pleasurable to pronounce.

More importantly than poems or limericks, words are the bedrock for our thoughts.

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

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