This Is What Happens When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

It's been awhile since I've penned anything. The creative seems to be dry - arid, barren, dried-up. Life has taken some twists and turns and I'm still trying to get my bearings. Having had my position eliminated over a year ago I'm still trying to get into the rhythm of forced retirement. Getting hired at my age - 53 - appears to be an impossibility because I am either overqualified or they can hire a young person to do the same job at half the salary. Well, they believe they can but you can't put a price tag on experience and my witty charm.

Luckily the Beloved is still working, hence the medical benefits that I so desperately need are still intact. But it weighs on me. What if? It's that what if that keeps me awake on most nights; its that what if that short-circuits my productive spirit and lolligags me to the couch to watch TV one too many times; it's that what if that makes me eat one too many burgers, hot dogs or pizza and stops me from exercising because I figure if I'm gonna kill myself, then dammit, I want it done perfectly. I ask, how does one go from being a herbivore to a straight-up carnivore in one swell swoop? Depression, that's how. If I can't drink it or smoke it away, then shit, I'm eating it to submission. I don't sit and read Plath either or contemplate the many ways I can do myself in or cry, cry, cry. Nope, I'm more of a procrastinator's dream - sigh, yawn, scratch my belly or my head or my hives, figure out what to do then not do it because there's now always tomorrow, and maybe somewhere around 3:00 or 4:00 pm I finally wake up from the spell and actually do shit.

And I've suddenly become the embodiment of Murphy's Law. This summer alone I've been bitten to bits by mosquitos at the shore (yes, at the shore), sprained my ankle stepping into the patio from the den, re-injured the ankle at the beach when I landed on the hard sand coming down from a wave, have developed recurring dermatitis on my eyes, have contracted poison ivy (twice) working in my yard, gotten hives all over my body from the heat, broken a molar, and injured my knee. *sigh* It's been one fun summer let me tell ya. I simply must create a blog to inspire others to follow in my footsteps.

But enough is enough. At some point, Snow White needs to wake the fuck up and deal with the dwarfs that seem to be tethered to her at all times. Happy and Doc will stay cause they're good to have on deck; one always needs a happy friend in their life and Doc comes in handy because of my recurring injuries which happen one too often that I am now convinced Mother must have pissed someone off real bad at some point in her life and hence, I've been cursed. But Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy and Dopey need to get the hell out and find new digs; Sneezy is annoying the shit outta me, Sleepy is so frigging lazy he's getting on my nerves, Grumpy just loves to start trouble and Dopey watches too much damn TV and is just plain stupid. As for Bashful, he's such a kindred spirit, I don't have the heart to tell him he has to go and most likely will stay.

So I've cleaned house and systematically have been getting it and my life in order. First order of business was a visit to my cardiologist. Yeah, blood results were so good he put me on high quantities of Omega 3 and Niacin to bring down my dangerous levels of triglycerides (thanks to my carnivore fest!). Then a visit to my nutritionist who was aghast at my food choices.

"You need to eat better. You can't eat every day like it's your last meal,"

"Yeah, I understand, but you have no idea how good it feels."

"Well, find some other thing that makes you feel good. Do you knit?"

She suddenly appears to have three heads, "Do I look like I knit?"

"Well, then exercise."

"I can't."

She's not buying, "Why not?"

"Because the heat makes me break out in hives and the heat is really bad for my heart anyways." She then gives me that same look my cardiologist gives me whenever I try to explain to him why I don't exercise.

"So then do yoga."

"I can't."

She sighs, "Why not?"

"Because each time I've tried it, I've injured myself."

At this point, she leans back in her chair and examines me like I may need a psychiatrist. "So are there any activities you can do that can keep your mind occupied from not eating crap and not injuring yourself?"

"Well... I write. When I write I lose track of time and don't eat crap."

"So have you been writing?"

"Not really. Writing is actually a productive activity and I've kinda been shunning away from those."

She looks at me like she wants to laugh but is not sure whether I was serious or not, "Listen, I want you to start writing and and I want to see you in a month this time, not a year."

I get home and tell the Beloved his diet is changing again. He reply is dripped in sarcasm, "Of course it is." This does not make him happy. He likes his burgers and pizza and crappy food that enticed me outta of my herbivore ways.

"Listen. If I'm getting healthy, so are you Bub. This isn't a solo flight for me. I don't do solo. So suck it up sunshine and enjoy what I serve you. You want your artery-clogging food, have it for lunch, don't bring it in the house because if you do I'm gonna die and if I die I will come back and haunt your ass for killing me before my time. See how that works?"

Without looking up from his newspaper he responds ever so quietly and slowly, "Well, at least I find comfort in the fact that I'll never be alone. Whether dead or alive, you'll still be here." Then, "So why should I not bring bad food into the house again?"