A new decade

So here's something you don't want to do: look for pictures of feet on a scale on the interwebs. If you ever thought feet were strange looking, browsing through dozens of pictures of them won't do anything to change that.

What am I saying? Feet. Not a pretty picture.

But contrary to what you've read so far, I'm not here to talk about feet. I'm here to talk about the scale.

Historically the scale has not been my friend. Whether it's my expensive digital bathroom scale, or the twenty-year old beam scale (yes that's what it's called, no I didn't have to look it up) in the doctor's office, they always come up with a number that shocks me. Of the two, I look more forward to the bathroom scale, because that one is usually off by three or four pounds in my favor. But the doctor's office scale pops that balloon real fast.

It's a number that says, "Well, looks like we're not keeping that resolution again this year."

Everyone has a different way of assessing their weight. Mine is in decades. Not the years, the increments. I call every ten-pound increment on the scale a decade. And here's the bad news: I thought I was in one decade, but come to find out I'm well into the next one.

It made me so mad at myself I had to have some sugar cookies just to calm down.

When I enter a new decade on the scale, it's not easy to deal with the shame, embarrassment and disappointment. Something my high school girlfriend used to tell me all the time.

And it's not like I don't have inspiration all around me. My close personal friend Rich Siegel—Peleton evangelist, proprietor and editor-in-chief of Round Seventeen—has recently undergone a physical transformation, dropping a ton (not literally) of weight. He looks great, feels great and is currently in the market for a newer, less tenty wardrobe.

When I ask him how he did it he said diet and exercise. Like I'm buying that.

Another close friend, the formidably talented copywriter, screenwriter and bronze medal winner in curling at the 2014 games in Sochi, Cameron Young is constantly encouraging me and generously making himself available to go for long scenic walks, where we can speak of things that matter, make fun of strangers and burn calories at the same time.

Walking. Isn't that what I do between the bedroom and the refrigerator? At midnight?

One problem is I can carry a lot of weight without looking too awful. But I can only kid myself for so long. It's a numbers game, and sometimes the numbers just decide to slap you across the face and call you Sally.

Anyway, seems to me there are really only two solutions. One is to give the scale a twenty-pound head start so I don't feel so bad. The other is to let it keep starting at zero and get serious about lowering the number. After all, it's not a lot to lose. I've done it before and I know how.

And since I've been measuring the ups and downs in decades, I'll have to do what Superman did flying counterclockwise around the earth, and Cher did singing on a battleship.

Turn back time.

The long goodbye

Yesterday was a very good day. At twelve minutes before noon eastern, you could actually feel the country—nay, the world—breathe a sigh of relief we’d been holding in for over four years.

In case you’ve been living under a rock,—in which case there’s a better than average chance you might be a Trump cabinet member—the reason is because decency, compassion, intelligence, experience, diplomacy, scientists, grownups and words spelled correctly are once again calling the White House home.

There were also a lot of predictable songs being played, quoted and sung to celebrate the occasion—all taking aim at a certain orange-faced, tiny-handed, democracy-hating, Stay Puft, unstable genius who was leaving on a jet plane (at taxpayer’s expense) for the last time.

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead.

Goodbye To You.

Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Goodbye.

Good Riddance. Not the Green Day song: I’m saying good riddance.

And I’m filing this one under better late than never, but almost all the social platforms that gave Cadet Bone Spurs a megaphone to spew his bile and idiocy finally decided to cut off his oxygen by banning him and his hate rhetoric. This isn’t to say he’ll be gone from the public eye entirely, what with that pesky impeachment trial and New York state indictments coming down the pike, but his exposure—at least to the public—has been greatly sidelined.

I’m sure his fragile ego and malignant narcissism are handling it just fine.

Anyway, like almost everyone in the world not wearing a red hat, I’ve had more than enough of him. I refuse to give him anymore mind space.

So as of today, I’m announcing my candidacy for….wait…that’s not it. Oh, right. I’m announcing I’m done posting memes, retweets, cartoons, articles and anything else talking about Trump, even if it’s how awful he is, to any of my social feeds.

Yeah I know. I’m sorry to see them go too.

But really, it’s just redundant. It’s like saying the sky is blue. The ocean is deep. Trump is a festering piece of shit.

Damn it! Old habits die hard. Sorry (not sorry).

Fear not, I’ll still be putting up political posts, maybe even about his grifter family members or android son-in-law. Just no more directly about him. Every time his name gets mentioned, it keeps him in the public conversation and a kitten dies. I don’t think any of us want that.

Besides, there’s a whole new administration to make fun of, although I’m sure for the most part it’ll be the good-hearted, good-natured kind.

And don’t you worry about me backsliding on my promise. It’s as solid as the new year’s resolution I made to lose weight.

For the last twenty years.

See you next fall

January 1st and I have what you might call a tumultuous relationship. Oh sure, I'm always happy when it comes around, but then something inevitably happens to break the mood.

For example last New Year's Day, I found myself in the ER with my blood pressure somewhere between steam coming out of a pressure cooker and a lovely hillside view. That was because at the time, I'd been prescribed a new med which, come to find out, funny thing, I was deathly allergic to. Doctors, amIrite?

Anyway, this new year the tradition continued. We got home from a lovely time at our annual January 1st brunch with the usual suspects. I was in the kitchen by the fabulous new farmer's sink we put in during our remodel a couple years ago, and turned around to walk back into the living room.

Unbeknownced to me, my teeny, tiny, virtually invisible 90-lb. German Shepherd had stealthily snuck up behind me and was standing there. When I turned to go, I went ass-over-teakettle (hence the picture) into a wall, the refrigerator and finally landed face down on the kitchen floor like a bag of rocks.

Physical comedy was never my strong suit.

My son happened to be sitting in a chair that faces our open kitchen and saw the entire event. He quickly came over to ask if I was ok, which I was. Besides my knee, arm, back and cheek, the only thing that was injured was my pride. And my until then perfect tour en l'air (look it up).

So bruised but undaunted, I continue into the new year with a brand new resolution—to try to be more careful and aware of my surroundings every January 1st.

And look both ways while crossing the kitchen.