AGE – wanna be younger?

I’m 66 – perhaps I sound younger if I tell you that I’m 66-1/2? Or did that just make it sound immature and pathetic?  No matter how we announce our age, we have this constant dissatisfaction with respect to how old we are; seemingly, we are never truly settled nor satisfied with our actual age - don’t you think that’s weird?

Okay, from new-born till I was 6 years old, I probably couldn’t have cared less about age, because I didn’t know any better; existing was simple. It was all about sleeping, eating, pooping and playing 24/7; what a life, huh?

Then I started to become age-conscious; all of a sudden I was not happy with 6 and couldn’t wait till I hit 7. 7 arrived and 10 was the next new goal. At 15 I couldn’t wait for 18, as 18 was some kind of big-age-step, including a license to drive (in Denmark). Of course at 18 I was longing for the drinking age at 21 (in the USA) and time to legally get shit-faced (that would be drunk - in most languages).

From that point on I cruised till I was 40 without many age-concerns; but at 40 I reminded myself that I had reached mid-life, meaning about half of the expected lifespan – Yuk, if you ask me…

I celebrated 50 with a nice party, but realized that now I had fewer years left than I had already lived; reality with a bit of morbid flavor – don’t you agree?

At 60 I finally figured out that there wasn’t a heck of a lot I could do about that age-thing. For a short period of time, I seriously contemplated the whole old fart issue and the limited time I had left – I really did. It was depressing in a sad and pathetic way. But I got out of it by realizing how much life I had left, how I seriously enjoyed life much more now than ever. How fortunate I am being married to my very best friend (and she’s younger – not that it matters); two great sons, cute pets, superb family and loving friends and we also live in one of the most beautiful areas and so forth – I can’t complain.

So the question: want to be younger? There were moments around 60 where I did have thoughts of what if? But they were just thoughts and then the urge of getting younger disappeared as I realized how lucky I actually was – right there and then, and right here and now.

We are bombarded from all sides, that it’s (for whatever reason) cooler to be younger, look younger, act younger, no matter our age. Some people buy into it, and I fully respect that – to each his/her own, as the saying goes. But in a few cases I think some of those people look silly in the process, especially when they are trying too hard.

Of course I have had fantasies about being 20-something with the life experience and knowledge I have today. Wow, I mean how cool would that be, on so many levels – hubba hubba. And then I swing back to life as it really is, smile, giggle, but still think: “it could have been some serious fun, huh?”

So how are you handling this whole thing? Are you purchasing rejuvenating lotions, drinking from the spring-of-youth, dress under your real age and below your actual size, use the term “DUDE” and “OMG” a lot and only give your real age to the police – when asked? Do you actually really want to be younger than you are? Or are you one of those real weird and unpredictable persons who are rather satisfied being your age? I hope you cope, and welcome in the club – it took me a while to become a member.

Age is a measure we to some extent are not comfortable with. When I hit the tender age when I could actually buy tickets for the movies at a senior citizen discount (Yuk), saving a buck or two, I refused to take advantage of that, as I was not ready to give my advanced age away. And really, how pathetically stupid was that? Now I don’t give a hooters and I save as many dollars my age will carry – even got to the point when buying anything: (with a pretend shaky old person voice): “How much is the senior citizen discount on this?” Sometimes I get a few bucks off, but most of the time they rightfully roll their eyes and think: “old fart…” I can’t blame them – but a buck is still a buck, huh?

And why is it that it’s okay to ask a male gender person his age, but asking a female her age is seemingly against Federal law? Do you know why? I think it’s stupid and therefore I have never had a problem asking any female her age – when appropriate and consistent with the situation, of course. Okay, I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’m always told the truth, but in most cases I think I am.

So why do we have such a hard time dealing with our age, whatever it is? Why is it that we make it totally clear that we are 12-1/2 years old and not just 12? I always giggle when somebody older still uses the -1/2, as in 66-1/2. I’m not sure what it means; to me that additional -1/2 means squat, while I remember that I also used it a lot back then.

The deal is that there is not much we can do about this age/time thing. No matter what, it is constantly moving forward – it will never stop and it most certainly will never roll back – no matter how much we would like it to. Sure, behaving immaturely, which I am a master at doing, might cut a few years, but does not leave a positive image – far from; pitiable comes to mind.

So how old will I get (since I’m not getting any younger)? From I was a teenager, I have had this theory that I will outlive my last living parent by at least 5 years. I live a healthy life; I don’t do a lot of stupid things that would shorten my expected life-expectancy. My dear Mother is 92 (-1/2, giggle giggle), so I am heading towards 97 (-1/2). So far, that is giving me about another 31 years – plus (-1/2?) to enjoy life.

I have always appreciated life – at least a vast majority of the time. But now life feels even more precious, fun and interesting in a much more concentrated way. I really wish the younger people would understand the importance of enjoying where they are now. Stay your age, enjoy and appreciate, as well as respect the fact that we do only get this one chance – so don’t screw it up, as life does not have time for petty and ignorance.

Live life to the fullest (within what’s legal) – while also accepting that we will not get any younger, no matter what we do and how hard we try; but that’s also okay – it really is.

Till next Monday

LET’S TALK ABOUT SEX – but we really don’t

We talk a lot; we talk a lot about a lot of things – we pretty much talk about everything. But we don’t really talk a lot about sex, if at all. Don’t you think that’s weird in a strange kind of way? I mean sex is as natural as eating, walking, bowling and breathing – so what’s the problem? Why can’t we talk freely about sex?

Let’s see if you cringe, sweat in strange places or blush during the following: The biological side of sex is referring to sexual reproduction, which consist, among many things, from the mix of genetic traits morphing into male and female varieties by combining specialized cells, that we all know are called gametes, to create an offspring that inherit traits from both biological contributors (aka. parents). The results are based on the quality of the supplied spermatozoa and ova (I looked it up). So are you okay? Was it a rough ride? Didn’t think so – I went through it several times without even clearing my throat or blushing.

The clinical biological explanation of sex, pretty much says that a woman and a man hook up, get it on and do that sex-thing we don’t want to talk about in straight language. Though we know precisely what they are doing down to the most intimate details, we are really shy and uncomfortable talking about sex “that way” (while disturbingly realizing how much we learn about sex from movies and TV programs. Well, not exactly real sex, but at least movie and TV sex).

It’s kind of a weird moral condition as we accept statues and paintings of fully naked men and women in museums, but when I strut around downtown San Francisco in all my nudity, I get arrested (while supported loudly by applauds from onlookers, in appreciation of my physique or stupidity).

But when it’s the daily variety sex-chat that pops up, for the most part we turn hesitant, reluctant, slightly embarrassed, while scraping the ground with our left foot going: “gee shucks…” Sounds familiar? So why is it like that?

As I arrived in the USA back in 1975, my English was fair – I got around. Lying by the pool in Marina Del Rey a guy next to me pointed at this nice looking woman and told me that he really wouldn’t mind sleeping with her. What, was he some kind of pervert? But then I heard that term more often and quickly (duh) figured out that it meant “to have sex with”. So why can’t we just say that. Sure he wouldn’t mind sleeping with her at some point; afterwards - hopefully not during…

Intra-gender we talk about sex, but in terms that are not clinically accepted, but more so in slang-terms. We try to hide the fact that we are tip-toing in areas of discomfort, by seemingly being cool about it – which we are not. Straight talk about sex is iffy, at best.

I know, we substantiate this condition of non-talk by claiming that sex is very personal, as we expose emotions, feelings, open hearts, etc. and we find a gentle vulnerability that we don’t particularly want to share with anybody else. Even long-time couples and sex-partners, no matter their abilities and experiences, have a hard time chatting about the events, dissecting the course of actions, to perhaps improve and/or enhance. So they let their actions speak for themselves - hopefully.

The sad part of non-communication concerning sex is when one person has concerns about what is happening or not happening. In many cases they find it hard to express, difficult to bring up, and not only due to the uncomfortable subject matter, but also because of the emotional reaction it might create in the other participant.

Any “suggestions” might be taken as an attack of performance, so defensive could be the result of confrontation, no matter how gently the issue is presented.

It’s hard to talk about sex because of all the emotions involved and due to the deep personal experience it is for each individual person – so we decide not to talk about it much - if at all.

When our children reach the age when that sex-thing shows its interesting head, when they start to become curious and then sexually attracted to whomever, the famed “talk” must be activated. As I understand it, for the most part it’s the fathers who must clear their collective throats and forge ahead. But the forging ahead is being delayed several times (years?) so when they finally sit down with Melissa or Frank, the sex-talk goes like this:

“Well, my child, we need to talk about sex – are you okay with that?” The child looks at the father and smiles the sweetest smile.

“Yes Dad; what do you want to know?”

And the truth is, that’s pretty much how it goes these days. Neither my father nor my mother ever gave me “the talk”. What I initially learned about sex was from my pals, a totally torn up book about procreation from the school’s library, horridly crude drawings by icky classmates and a tiny bit of sex-education in class. The teacher pretty much did the pull-condom-over-banana bit and that was it. For some of the more naïve kids this was very confusing: “Peter, I nearly made out with Pam last night, but dang it, I forgot the banana…” kind of issue.

I do remember a sex-chat I had with classmates of mine in camp. I even remember who were there. It was Leif, Ellen, Ruth, Pia and I – approximately a million years ago; we must have been around 12 or something. I remember what we talked about and I recall the way we talked about it – very matter of fact and straight forward, and I even remember where and remember that I learned a lot.

In the past I was excited about scenes in movies where they went for it. My favorite was when they can’t wait (like normal people do) to get it on, so they tear their clothes off in a kind of sexy manner, push all the utensils off the butcher-block in the kitchen and off they go. I always thought that was so cool – even felt an exciting urge to buy a butcher-block to get that kind of action – duh… Of course I could have started out small, by using a simple cutting board…

But then it turned stupid and embarrassing, and though I still appreciate looking at naked bodies (to a certain extent), I move in my chair and can’t wait for it to be over. I get clinical about it, questioning the lack of foreplay in those scenes, the distinct absence of romance, respect and true concern of each partner’s experience.

But they are still doing the butcher-block thing like it’s something new. To me it’s not, only embarrassing and uncomfortable to watch – so I do what any mature adult does: cover my ears, close my eyes and do that weird sound thing.

I do understand why we are not freely letting our mouths run off about sex this and sex that – I’m okay with status quo. If we actually started to narrate sexual experiences, wouldn’t that blow the romance and a lot of the excitement out the window (or off the butcher-block)? I knew you would agree.

This said, I do strongly believe that if there are issues that are in the way of a better sexual experience as well as sexual relationship, then we MUST talk about it – (not me, of course, because I’ll be too busy blushing and going: “gee shucks”, while covering my ears)…

Till next Monday.

This is a 232 page gathering of my posts from that first year of blogging and easy to read. If you have been following these weekly posts on-line, you’ll have them all together in this handy book; how convenient is that? I have made a few adjustments, but it’s not like it’s totally different from what you can read on the blog.

So how about using this book as a present for someone, family, friends, unsuspected colleagues or even total strangers, just to make them happy, make it possible for them to improve their lives and stuff like that? Just imagine how thankful they’ll be for your consideration, your thoughts and concern; I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

I have made it a goal of selling a lot of these books. It’s not really for the money (though my lovely Mother thinks so), but it’s because I think this book has some decent suggestions, cheap laughs and giggles, and I see nothing wrong with that – do you? I knew you wouldn’t.

If you and all these family, friends and colleagues of yours want a signed copy, all you/they have to do is send me an E-Mail with their name and (postal) mailing address.

steiness@sbcglobal.net

and I’ll do the rest – what a guy.

Otherwise the book is available through amazon.com here in the USA as well as in Europe. The Kindle edition is $5.95

Paperback $12.95 (USA) + $3.95 S&H

For signed copies, contact me through my E-Mail above

Thanks for your support, interest and time – really

Peter B. Steiness

 

GIVING THANKS – but just once a year?

After hundreds of years, President Roosevelt finally signed into law, that we shall officially stuff a turkey and then our faces, every fourth Thursday in November – like forever, I think he said. Being linked to a romantic part of history and the tradition we fully embrace, this grand celebration of appreciation is rightfully called Thanksgiving. In importance, it is right up there with my birthday.

We get together with family and friends, people we love or at least like. We enjoy the extended meal; perhaps even the extended weeks of left-overs. And in between eagerly stuffing our faces, we express thanks and appreciation, not just for the food and Aunt Angela’s many hours in the kitchen – but universal thanks for everything, pretty much. But that’s where I get a bit miffed; why are we dedicating just one day a year to give thanks?

What I’m concerned, we are spoiled. Now, don’t get all huffy puffy with steam coming out your ears. In this case I use “spoiled” to describe something a tad ignorantly cute, though it is seriously an issue we should pay more attention to.

I can swing with calendar days dedicated to remembrance and acknowledgement; most of us respect those days. Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, D-Day and so forth, with my all-time favorite: Valentine’s Day (it’s the high-calorie chocolate, of course). But do I really need this once-a-year reminder of how much I adore my wife? I acknowledge my love for her every single day, including deep respect and appreciation - thank you.

So an annual reminder of giving thanks? We are spoiled to the extent that we have so much stuff and many people to be thankful for; and we pretty much take it all for granted. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we don’t appreciate all these things, family and friends, but shouldn’t we at least acknowledge all this joy more than just once a year? I know, you and I do it all the time – but it’s the rest out there I’m worried about…

No, I am not asking anybody to run around and verbally express gratitude and thanks every time we leave the seat down or water of your choice is running or not, as you turn the faucet thing left or right. I don’t find it necessary to send Bill Gates a thank-you note every time Windows 7 performs as it is supposed to.

But what I would like us to do more is acknowledge the thousands of daily wonders we are surrounded by, what makes it all work and who makes it all function; pay more attention to the people we love, by letting them know; and appreciate the ones who love and appreciate us; a bit more of that will improve the quality of our daily lives - don’t you agree?

We function better when encouraged – we really do. We put in a bit more energy when somebody tells us how much they appreciate our effort. Acknowledgement, being thankful and appreciation go both ways; it is as gratifying to give as it is to receive - and not just once a year.

Instead of telling our children we love them, let’s tell them why we love them. Tell your husband he still looks hot in those underwear he bought 14 years ago; he will giggle with appreciation, and still not get rid of them. Leave a bottle of wine and a card that says: “Great job” and your co-worker will feel like a million; and the list is long. And always remember, the biggest sign of appreciation, thankfulness and acknowledgment is that great smile of yours.

The list of what I appreciate cannot to any extent be crammed into just one day of thanks, no matter how much great gravy goes with it. So I try to spread it out and that helps making my life even fuller; I can highly recommend it and it doesn’t cost a dime.

The fourth Thursday every November, we celebrate Thanksgiving. But remember, giving thanks is the exciting 364 day feast that can be just as warm, rich and rewarding – and without the turkey leftovers.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Here in the USA we celebrate a day of thanks. If interested to know a bit more about this day and its history, I published a post November 2011 that you might be interested in reading – so here’s the link:  

THANKSGIVING - and do you know why?

FROM CUTE BABIES TO CLEVER KIDS

Let’s all admit that babies are cute - and no matter the irrational side to the following, that is pretty much how we decide to make our own adorable babies. What I’m concerned, if that cute baby part doesn’t smell of conspiracy regarding the attempt to move the human race forward, I don’t know what it smells like (besides that horrific diaper odor).

ELVIRA – PART OF THE CONSPIRACY

After they pop out, grow up a bit, begin to walk and especially start talking, we belatedly acknowledge that a more rational pre-reproduction thinking should have been considered. The work involved having a child is tremendous - and the cost? OMG. Nobody told me about all this stuff; not even my Mother – but of course I never asked her, because babies are soooo bloody cute.

Role-Model is soon tattooed on our foreheads and the huge responsibility it brings along, nobody can teach us about or even make any sense of; we wouldn’t understand. We simply have to learn on the job - and what a job it is, especially when you want to do it well.

It would be easier if kids were just like “duh” for a really long time (okay, some are like that, even deep into their golden years and beyond). But we soon find that kids are so far from stupid – they are actually very smart and clever; a thing we self-proclaimed adults at times forget or might not willingly admit to; but to me from cute babies to clever kids is extremely real (and exciting).

Thinking back to the childhood of our two sons, so many fond moments pop up, they really do. When I look at pictures from back then, I often find tears rolling down my suntanned cheeks – tears of joyous remembrance (sigh). Images bring back conversations we had, the (role-model) parent constantly explaining to the child, about things and stuff, this and that, why and why-not, how and how-not – and I never used: “just because”.

I decided pre-birth to communicate with our sons, from the time they were born, the way I did and do with adults. In my evaluation, I felt that a lot of the gagga-googgoo stuff was derogatory (as in: degrading) towards the babies and kids. Now you can huff & puff and disagree, but that’s how I did it. Not as a reason why, but I was an older kind of parent at about 40 with my wife about 30.

When we got pregnant with the first one, I decided to quit my day-job and become an at-home parent (while starting a new business, also from home, at the same time, with my wife going back to work). Of the three greatest decisions I have ever made in my life, marrying my wife was the first; staying home with our first born was the second and staying home with our second son, was the third – no contest what-so-ever.

So it was the start of that on-the-job hands-on learning curve of becoming a role-model and the best parent that I could be. I quickly acknowledged the raw reality that every single situation that was new to me as a parent was new to the kid as well. So as that quickly sank in, I was much more respectful in my parenting. I wasn’t always the one being right – when I listened to the child’s opinion. But that was also okay and something I think we all respected.

There is such a refreshing honesty beaming from most kids. It can be cruel at times and as kids grow up, that cruelty can be crushing – but we must understand that at that point in their lives, they don’t know any better. We try to explain, but then we at times also forget the maturity level these kids are on, so we don’t understand why we don’t connect, when we really should know better.

They tell us the truth as they see it, and due to our beliefs, our experiences and morals, we might find that truth irrational, rude and inconsiderate; but they don’t know any better - yet. Sure there is a lot of experience missing as they are young, but I truly believe that if we as parents (role-models) acknowledge that more so than we do, standing stubbornly on how WE feel about it, not trying to understand more so how the kids feel (and would know) about it, a lot of these conflicts would be non-existing. As adults we must acknowledge this much more than we do, as we cannot (yet) expect this understanding from the kids – we really can’t.

“Elvira, you must remember that you cannot beat up on your older brother the way you did.” The father (aka: role-model) communicates to his daughter. “Now he has a bloody nose, scratches on his face and a bruised ego – why did you do that?”

“He kept calling me names and he messed up my room and was being utterly stupid and immature…” She spoke in a clear and controlled voice.

“But sweetheart, you know how we have told you so many times that we do NOT solve problems with violence; don’t you remember?”

“But Daddy, I sat him down and explained the situation so clearly to him. I told him, just what you said about “problem solving, not using violence”, and that’s when he tore off Beach Barbie’s bikini and told me she was ugly…”

“And then what?”

“I beat the crap out of him…” Elvira had a smirk plastered on her face.

“But sweetheart, you are seven years old and you should know better by now…” She interrupted her father.

“Daddy, now you are using my age in relation to knowledge and experience. As you know “age” is just a measure of time – and nothing else…” The father became slightly puzzled – and cleared his throat…

“Well, but let’s refrain from violence when solving problems, okay?” And he got up to flee the room… But Elvira had not even started.

“Daddy, you talk about not using violence when needing to solve a problem; I understand that, but can you explain to me why we have wars? Why did 625,000 die in the Civil War; all of them Americans, brothers killing brothers, fathers? The First World War with 11 million killed; Second World War with about 60 million. And why are about 13,000 here in America murdered annually? Isn’t it for the most part to solve problems? And how about suicides? About 26,000 men and 7,000 women find that to be a way to “solve” things? So where’s your logic? Why are you telling your child to refrain from problem-solving violence when that is all we see around us? I mean, turn on the TV and there you go – guns in hands, solving stuff…” Father cleared his throat.

“Do you think we can fix Beach Barbie’s bikini?”

The point is that we do want to teach our children about a better world, and we do our best – at least we try (A for effort). But at times logic clashes with reality, a reality our children let us know about – and as the kids see the bigger pictures much clearer than we give them credit for, we should all meet halfway?

No, kids shouldn’t rule the world. They will eventually, but they are not ready yet. And that’s the job we are doing, preparing them to take charge. When we acknowledge and respect wherever they are, perhaps listen to them with bigger ears, I look at a great future and not a lot of worries. Sure those babies are cute, and then they turn into clever kids – which I also find is as cute as can be; with a lot of respect, of course.

Till next Monday – listen to a kid, really; they’ll tell you the truth…

GOOD DAYS – BAD DAYS

“I’m having a really crappy day” is probably what we say more than: “I’m having a superbly wonderful day”. What I’m concerned, that’s not fair, as we no doubt have more good days than bad days; so why give bad days the extra credit? Of course we also have those days in between that are titled “average”, nothing to write home about – just, well “average”. Sounds familiar?

I was about 9, home alone and bored stiff. My father was at work and my mother out shopping or something. My brother… well, he wasn’t there to pester me; but bored I was. I sat on the lawn in the garden and violently struck some huge garden scissors into the grass and then pulled the handles apart to break up the soil. Not for any other reason than I was bored. I did it again and again and only stopped when the very sharp and pointed scissor blades were about ¼ inch into the back of my lower leg. After moments of extreme screaming relating to the horrific horror and, oh yeah, that sincere and agonizing pain, I carefully pulled the garden scissors out of my leg, which opened up a fast flow of blood, with some white tendon or muscle tissue now sticking out; but the blood was the worst. So you say: exaggerated big time in retrospect? No, it was actually worse.

I placed my dirty hand over the flow of blood and tried that way to get up the stairs and into the apartment. Every time I moved my hand to walk faster, the blood stepped up pouring out; so back the hand went to stop it.

I finally made it through the living room, the hallway and into the bathroom, still screaming in shock. My mother had told me, “always clean wounds”, which I did with additional pain. I even tried to stuff the tendon tissue bit back in with my thumb; but I did not succeed.

After some time and loss of about 7 liters of blood, it felt like, it all finally slowed down and gave me a short moment to place a huge band aid over the cut; it wouldn’t stay plastered. I tried again and again, but it didn’t help. I wiped more blood up and when fairly clean and dry, I quickly wrapped a fat roll of gauze around my leg and the wound, and though it was still bleeding through in the process, it did finally stop. I was positive it was because there was no more blood left, substantiated by my eerily white face.

As my mother was supposed to be home by bus within the hour, I limped into my room where I had a view of the bus stop from a big window. To get a better look, I pulled up the very heavy wooden blinds and secured the pull-line on the hook.

With my nose pressed flat against the window, one hand covering the gauze, blood and protruding tendon, tears in my eyes and wishing for mom to show up so bad, the 66 kilo wooden blinds suddenly came tumbling down and smashed my face into the windowsill, causing my nose to bleed, my scalp opening up and my world to fully collapse.

Now that was a really, really bad day… no matter how much my mother kissed my boo-boo; and I still have the scars to prove it. Ever had one of those days?   

In retrospect it’s good to have a day like that, because all other days shine in comparison. Luckily, that’s about as bad as any bad day I ever had, so I feel I’m lucky in that department. My crappy days, even combined do not measure up to some unfortunate people’s one single day of misfortune. I do think about that often and then I knock on wood.

When we have the option of making it a bad day or a good day, I’m sure good days win. Of course the more dramatic “bad” days are something to write home about, but, nah, I’ll stick to making my days as good as I can make them.

Good or bad days rely a lot on attitude, like what do we really want them to be. Sure bad days can suddenly pop up on a good day and screw everything up; most of the time not at our own doing.

Good days take a bit of work, but are a lot more rewarding. I know from the second I swing them legs out of bed if it’s going to be a good day or not. It will be good when I feel rested, have a schedule in line of stuff I really like to do and other factors that will make it all add up. And for the most I’m right – and that’s normally how the day progresses; mainly because I want it to – remember that “effort” thing?

Sure, crap pops up, but on a good day I do solve whatever the crap is in a more positive manner – I try not to let a good day be knocked down to a bad day. And when I think about it, making it good days is not that hard. Bad days are easy in comparison, as we just blame everything and everybody around us and then let it roll. But the reward is – well, crappy.

Average days are just that – average. We don’t put out a lot of effort to make them special; we just hang in there, do the minimum to function – and another day down the drain, compared to what we could have made of it. Just thinking about it makes me a bit sad – but more so disappointed, because it doesn’t take much to make it a bit more positive and exciting and good – really.

So, let’s look at the bigger picture: I’ve lived 23,408 days so far (that’s 66-1/2 years). Let’s just guesstimate 15,000 good days, meaning days I was happy with; and how about 6,000 average days (Yuk), which gives me 2,408 really crappy days. Okay, so these are just guesstimates, but let’s go with it, shall we?

When we normally count an off day here and there, it’s not that big of a deal – and we have plenty to take from - we think. But when we add it all up, I must accept that I have been in a really crappy mood for 6.8 years. And what a total waste of time that was and it sucks high heaven; don’t you think?

The good part is that according to the above guesstimates, I have had about 42 years of good days. Let’s not negate the fact, that “some” individuals might dispute that it could not possibly have been that many. Among those in line, but not limited to: my wife, kids, immediate family, some friends, faithful pets (I thought they were), my Mother – oh, and a few co-workers and colleagues, several employees, some teachers, a few professors here and there, past girlfriends, that jerk boss back then – well, you get the idea… But what I’m concerned, most of those years were good.

But keep looking at the numbers and think what you can actually do about it – starting today; it does make me want to tighten the happy-belt a bit, move more average and bad days into good days– are you coming with me? It takes a bit more effort, but our daily lives would be so much better – and that I’m very sure of and I think you might be as well. Want to try it out?

We already have Good Friday, so let's go for Good (just about) Every Day?

Until next Monday (which is now good…)

WHAT’S YOUR SECRET, VICTORIA?

Well, if Victoria told you her secret, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, would it? At least that’s how I see it; but according to the official interpretation of what a secret is, I am surprisingly wrong – can you believe that? But I really don’t care, as I am convinced that I’m right; of course I have yet to find anybody else agreeing with me concerning this – hard to understand, don't you think?

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t really care if I’m right or wrong about secrets, as you are much more intrigued about whom the heck Victoria is? I’ll explain…

Here in the USA Victoria’s Secrets is a top-notch retail chain with over 1,000 stores; branches in Canada, the UK and some other countries. They promote and sell bras, panties, sleepwear, lingerie and stuff like that; yeah, for women, duh! What I’m concerned, they use some of the world’s hottest models for their catalogs and the image they project is first class sexy and sensuous – therefore my play on words: “Victoria’s Secret / What’s your secret, Victoria?” - Pretty darn cool, huh? Well, back to life as it really is.

When we are hiding information, we call it a secret and stuff we keep hidden is kept in secrecy. Surreptitiously or clandestinely means the same, but is harder to pronounce; for me at least - English being my second language.

Secrets can be controversial depending on content or motivation. We conceal aspects of ourselves due to shame, fear, rejection and harassment, loss of acceptance or employment – just to line up a few. And some conceal very personal aspects about themselves; information that might prevent certain goals to be achieved or for reasons that would make certain individuals look rather bad. If you “forget” to tell her that you are on FBI’s most wanted list for murder, (that slightly insignificant minor detail about you that you are not too wild about sharing), she might actually go on a date with you; secrecy at its worse – wouldn’t you say?

Family secrets are also a hot number, where whole families bar outsiders from sharing certain issues; as trivial as recipe secrets to information that will cause shame and dishonor to the family or individual family members.

Government secrecy includes, but is not limited to, concealment of weapons design, diplomatic negotiation tactics, military, defense, strike-force availabilities and a huge load more. Keeping certain secrets is substantiated as betterment for the people; perhaps a consideration that is ill-honored in some cases? I truly believe in truth between a government and the people it is governing. Yes, there is certain information I do not want the enemy to obtain, of course. But with respect to what should be known and what should be kept in secrecy, should be conducted on a level of logical trust between the government and the people; at least to the extent and consideration where nobody will get hurt.

My favorite concerning secrets is the secrecy about secrets obtained secretly from foreign secret services; secrets that are covertly extracted from their concealed secret information channels. The interesting thing is that this is so secret that nobody really knows about it; well, except me, of course. This is as secret as any secrecy will get – so to cover our National Buns of Steel, please don’t tell anybody about this. You did NOT hear it from me… Who?

But we are not the only species with secrets. You try asking a squirrel where he’s hiding his nuts, and he will not leak a word – true story. Some animals are masters in concealing (being secret about) their nests and dens and stuff like that, trying to keep these secrets from their un-friendly predators – and good for them.

Then there are all those societies of secrecy, where the members get to do all those cool rituals and secret handshakes, wow! Oh, and did you hear about the secret association back in 1987 that ceased to exist after 164 years? The reason was that they got so carried away and became so utterly secret, that tragically, the members, due to the highly hushed secrecy, ended up not knowing if they were actually members anymore; nobody knew. I mean, how freaking secret is that? Another true story.

The definition of “secret” is hiding information from certain individuals or groups. But of course we also have laws that require certain information is kept in secrecy: medical records, some financial reports and most of all, my diary; just to name a few of the more important ones. And then we come to the most important secret holder: YOU.

Yes, we all have secrets – every single one of us (except me, of course). It can be secrets about stuff we did, are going to do, thoughts and feelings from all over the place, emotions about somebody that we can never reveal or share. It can be evil secrets of revenge or disgrace and perhaps some positive secrets. But we all hold on to some and the reason being that if shared they might pop out as being hurtful, things that nobody would understand, serve no purpose, will expose and/or create jealousy, envy, sorrow – and you get the idea. So keeping a secret or two is not all bad.

What I’m concerned I really do not have any secrets of any great importance (dang it). What I do not expose is more so my very personal (secret) evaluation of things around me, especially people. Would some of these “evaluations” be hurtful if exposed? I can honestly say that for the most part they wouldn’t; but I will still hold on to my right to carry these “secrets” around in a little locked box.

“Listen, do you want to know a secret, do you promise not to tell…” was part of a song John Lennon of the Fab Four (Beatles) sang in the early 1960s. A sweet song with a bit of a naïve request …”do you promise not to tell…” The more innocent secrets, secrets that are happy secrets, I cannot keep quiet about if you give me a million bucks – not going to happen. I get a gift for my wife six weeks before her birthday – and she will know precisely what it is – six weeks before her birthday; so there, and no harm done.

We are not really that good about keeping secrets of any kind. How often has somebody sneaked up to you and said: “Keep this to yourself, but I hear Frances is seeing somebody other than her husband…” And then you ask somebody else to “keep it to themselves,” and the ball is in play.

So I am yet again tooting my horn about when a secret dissolve into a non-secret. I mean isn’t it logical? I have this fantastic secret, and if I cannot keep my mouth closed, it goes “poof” and is no more.

Oh crap, I just realized that I must have heard it from somebody else, so hasn’t that secret already melted away? Oh my goodness, I didn’t even think of that – now I have to re-tool this whole secret-thing philosophy; bummer.

Perhaps I’ll ask Victoria to help me; she might actually know the secret behind it all. Or is she just taunting and teasing me with the Victoria’s Secret stuff? I’ll never know, because I’m so sure that none of those hot models would even consider talking to me…

Oh joy, I just realized we have a friend named Victoria; wow, I can just ask her – and she is not bad looking at all – far from. So perhaps she’ll know (if she’ll talk with me after I have mentioned her here…).

See you next Monday – and that’s only a secret till you tell somebody; so please do…

Take a peek at Victoria's Secret (NO, I'm NOT compensated to any extent, other than WOW...)
http://www.victoriassecret.com

PERSONAL ADS – and why it can work

Homo sapiens are monogamous primates (yes, including you and I); we prefer to partner up with somebody more so than being single. Finding partners at the beginning of time was a piece of pre-historic cupcake: male find female, hit female over head with bat (where the term battered woman comes from) and drag by hair to condo-cave; dating at its most efficient. But then they had to ruin it with a law saying: “Not very nice” followed by stuff about women’s rights. And the personal ad was born.

British-English calls it: Lonely Hearts Column (that could be part of a good title for a Beatles song; there’s an idea), but today it’s more so Online Dating (Sgt. Pepper's Online Dating Band - doesn't sound right), as the use of the Internet to connect romantically has boomed tremendously the last 10-15 years, instigated by massive quantities of social Web-sites and networking.

The main reason for all this is to generate romance, friendships, relationships and sex; that be casual or long-term (from 6 minutes to more than 24 hours?) In personal ads you try (in some cases: desperately) to describe yourself and your interests beyond the truth and not much to do with the truth. You express what you are looking for, already knowing that this super-human does not exist - at all, except in your illicit fantasies. But you still hope somebody will respond, in spite the impossibilities you have already come to terms with (sigh).

In the good old days (have no idea when that was, but it sounds romantic) the newspapers charged the love-starved customers by the characters used in their ads looking for partners. So some cheapskates quickly created abbreviations and code-words to cut the cost of love; this eventually carried over to the Internet.

TLA means Three Letter Acronyms. The first letter covers relationships and sexual preference. Second letter is about ethnicity and/or nationality. Third letter is gender oriented. So if you read DWM, it would be Divorced White Male; easy, huh? GHT would read Gay Hispanic Transgender, and so forth (the last one, perhaps not so easy).

If you are in the process of finding a partner, looking for love, casual sex or perhaps a relationship, you are in so much luck today, because I have decided to help you along and make you succeed beyond your already inflated expectations. Follow the following and thank me later (cash only)… Let’s begin…

Getting familiar with the abbreviated lingo will save you time in your search, and already make you sound like you are seriously on a mission. Remember the TLA?

Let’s start with the first letter. Some of the more commonly used ones and a few of my personal suggestions: D = Divorced (Desperate) / G = Gay (not as in “happy” but that other thing) / M = Married (very separated, though still sleeping in the same bed with spouse and actually having consensual sex – a lot) / S = Single (and so bloody lonely) / T = Transgender (but confused – considering becoming a devout transvestite instead) / W = Woman or Widower (if not widower already, desperately wants to become one soon).

And the second letter: A = Asian / B = Black (African-American is too long, obviously) / D = Danish (& very Desperate) / H = Hispanic / J = Jewish or Japanese (in some cases: Japanese Jew?) – L = Latino or –na / W = White (as nobody can spell “Caucasian”)

The third letter: C = Couple (and let your imagination go wild) / M = Male (in some cases to be determined) / T = Transgender (I’m as confused as can be) / W = Woman (in some cases to be determined).

And then we have some other time-saving abbreviations: ALA = All Letters Answered. Add a WP and you have With Photo. ISO = In Search Of / LTR = Long Term Relationship and OHAC = Own House And Car or Own Hamster and Cat; plain and simple and not utterly exciting. But I’ll make it better…

Here are a few TLA’s that are not officially on the list, but are used no end. It might also have something to do with shyness, perhaps? VWE = Very Well Endowed (of course I have no clue what that means). RBB = Really Big Boobs / BOS = Buns Of Steel / SOP = Sleep-overs Preferred / ESM = Exceptional Stud Muffin. Well, you get the idea.

Here’s the universal top-hit of personal ads or Online. All you have to do is fill in the appropriate stuff that makes it YOU, up close and personal – and then not wait long for the responses to pour in.

“My name is Frank/Linda. I’m 32 and single (just out of two awful marriages…). I do not have any children – as far as I know. I’m white, except during the summer where I’m more like an early African-American; love spending a lot of time in the sun. I’m fully employed, now going on nearly three months. My salary is in the high six digits (if you include the two after the period). I own my own house, as soon as I have fully paid off all three mortgages, plus what I owe my parents – shouldn’t take more than 28 years or perhaps more.

I’m a terrific listener. I find it fascinating to learn about other people, about you, by listening. I do not use language that includes grunting, throaty sounds, rolling of eyes and the expression: “whatever”.  I’ll only tell you a story once, will never be whiny and fully accept when you are in a crappy mood.

I really love walks on the beach if it wasn’t for all the sand and water. Evenings cuddling (with the dog) in front of the fireplace and reading Heidi out loud. We will watch NASCAR, baseball and football (all at the same time) together, as well as Dancing with the Stars and we’ll make special evenings by watching Home Shopping Network – credit cards at the ready.

We will share keeping the house clean, the shopping, cooking and the laundry done, folded and put away. We’ll share driving, choosing what to watch and have two remote controls – his and hers. We’ll both maintain the children from diapers through college”. And the list is long – and it could be like this? Okay, so I poked a bit of fun; I hope nobody got offended, as it was not meant to be.

Reading a lot of these ads in the paper and on line, gives you a fairly clear idea what the different genders are looking for and who they are. I don’t find it a desperate last go at it, far from, but more so a serious attempt to hook up with a potential right-for-me person. And YES our life-styles have changed and the way to meet partners has changed dramatically with it. There are certain rules in place that makes it near impossible to find a partner in your place of work, etc. – and fair enough. Bars and other social scenarios seem less realistic these days, so personal ads and Online Dating come in rather convincing – they really do.

I am utterly happy in my relationship, married 28+ years to my best friend ever, but if (that would be in another life) I was single and was seeking a partner, I believe that I would certainly try the personal ads and Online Dating – I have no doubts about it.

See you next week – and thanks for reading

RUMORS – please don’t start any about me

For the most part rumors suck, as they seem intentionally vicious, based on made-up speculation, to hurt or deceit, misdirect, confuse, derogate and degrade. Can we find anything positive in spreading and/or being entertained by rumors? Should we consider ourselves ignorant when we pass them on so freely? I haven’t found any redeeming categories that give us an option between good rumors and not so good rumors; if you think of any, would you please let me know? 

Though social sciences have not really fessed up to a crystal clear definition of the term rumor, it seems that: “an unverified account or explanation of events circulating from person to person and pertaining to an object, event and/or of public or personal concern,” should somewhat make the term more understandable – or perhaps not even close.

In social study classes (or any nearby bar), the game of passing a specific set of information from one person to another, is rather eye-opening and fun; depending on the quantity of alcohol inhaled. In whatever scenario, it clearly shows us, how effortless we self-manipulate and produce incorrect information. We do not do this on purpose, of course; because this is just how it is.

“Carol will arrive at 8:30 PM, wearing a red skirt, a flowered blouse and matching handbag.” Nothing complicated. Sift that sentence through 10 people and if lucky, it comes out as: “Harold went through PMS again, causing a red alert and flour on his shirt and what was that last bit? Douche-bag?” (True story). 

Another thing about rumors is that it can rarely, if ever, be verified or confirmed with respect to actual and true information. If we could easily confirm any trueness of a rumor, then wouldn’t it slip into: “the truth is…” category? So it seems that when we run into a rumor, we automatically discard the notion that it could have anything to do with the truth; but we listen anyway – and in many cases with really big ears, just because of the lack of truth - weird.

Rumors are nicely tugged in between gossip and propaganda. Gossips are the lighter side of: “not really the truth, but fun anyway, and not really that intentionally hurtful,” (as long as it doesn’t involve me, of course). Propaganda is the hardcore side of rumors, where spreading misinformation and disinformation are done with calculated and intentional purposes, for the sole single-mindedness of controlling results and emotions in the target it’s aiming at. Propaganda is really nasty stuff, because it can never be any good. This form of manipulation can be used on small groups or the whole population of a country; and propaganda is unfortunately still abused on populations in certain countries today – and how disturbing is that?

Rumors can be used as a tool (or weapon, if you prefer?) in all kinds of situations. I can start a rumor about a (former) friend and look rather innocent in the process, beginning my deliberate false information to hurt this person by: “Did you hear…?” and the ball is rolling, with me claiming instant ignorance, because I stated that I heard it from somebody else… It is terribly easy to cut anybody down and the main reason being that we place too much “validity” in rumors. And another dreadful thing is, that when a rumor is flying around out there, it is very difficult to shoot down; actually near impossible to even hit.

“The rumors about me and "that other woman”, are not true. I do not know who you are talking about and I have never had an affair with her or anybody else, for that matter.” And I can repeat that till I’m blue in the face. In spite of my wife, kids, pets and friends assuring they believe me, I am still, from that moment on, marked with the proverbial dark cloud of rumor-doubt floating above me. And rumors do that, they leave doubt, no matter how untrue those rumors are.

Somebody started a rumor – for fun: “At the party last Saturday, did you see how Kenneth French kissed that slut, what’s her name?” And poor Kenneth is now devastated; his wife heard that rumor too, quickly kneed him (where it really hurts) and told him to go to Hell. The irony is that he had not even attended that party – instead, he went bowling with John and Bob (Kenny pretty much hates parties). But now, innocent Kenneth had fully experienced the power of rumors, by momentary loss of wife, as well as suffering the extreme pain from two certain parts of his anatomy being flattened by an angry knee attached to distraught wife. (She later on tried to “un-knee” the damage with kisses, but that hurt even more – we should give her points for trying, don’t you think?)

So how can we defend ourselves against rumors and even gossip? Our chances stretch from near impossible to not possible at all; great odds, huh? Okay, we can try to live a picture perfect life, do all the right things, smile when needed, etc. still, nothing will protect you. People will ask if the rumors circulating about you are true, and you adamantly deny that they are not. But doesn’t that more so show guilt? You might smile defensively, shake your head, roll your eyes and continue life; and then they call it denial. You cannot un-rumor yourself – it’s impossible. If you have ever succeeded, please let me know – seriously; I would really like to know how you did it.

Of course you could be an unethical jerk and defend yourself by start circulating nasty rumors about the one who is trying to get you – but would that be within your character, the ethics of who you are? Nah, don’t answer that – let’s keep it to ourselves.

What I’m concerned, there is a peculiar interpretation of rumors that journalists and reporters have available. Now, don’t get all huffy puffy, but swing with it, please. They can actually report stuff and “expose” information to readers, as the truth without legally having to reveal “the source” or “where they got it from”. Though demanded by judges at times, some will even keep their “source” hidden while paying fines and/or spending time in jail. So where am I going with this?

I don’t understand this legal availability of “freedom”, as it at times no doubt causes made up stuff to be passed on as the truth; to be able to manipulate “the truth” and nothing but – and not have to reveal where you got it from; the “source”. Wouldn’t you more so call this: “rumors with benefits”?

I do believe that the ethics of this issue is applied by most journalists and reporters, I do not doubt that at all; but it’s that slight and legally covered opening for temptation, bringing on a more colorful and exceptional story - that to me, gets a tad foggy. Oh well; we have the freedom to believe what we want to believe and I guess we should apply as needed.

Rumors are used to gain ground and profits in business and in all forms of life within our society; in politics, sports, academia – and so forth. For the most part rumors are not started to make anybody or anything look favorable and nice; only if fully intended to. That’s why I’m okay with gossips, as it doesn’t seem to be something we take too serious (except if it’s about me, of course).

It’s easy to start a rumor; any rumor. It is also irresponsible for the most part. It’s easy because if it is something with even the slightest negative connotation, we tend to find listeners faster – and I don’t fully know why that is; do you?

Though it’s easy to start rumors, why don’t we try not to do that, and while we are at it, why not stop any rumor we hear, from continuing – let’s just stop it right now. And remember, if you ever hear any negative rumors about me – it would be so untrue – so please discard at once and don’t pass it along, no matter how juicy - I thank you in advance…

Till next Monday – let’s make it a rumor-free week, okay? And good luck with that.

FITNESS – actually rather awesome

Johnny Carson, who hosted the Tonight Show for 30-some years, talked with his side-kick Ed McMahon about “fitness”. Johnny was into tennis and the daily use of his gym at home. Then it was Ed’s turn (for those not familiar with these two people, Ed was a tad “weight-challenged”, as in a lot out of shape). He explained: “I make so much money that I have somebody exercise for me…” Way to go, Eddie-Baby…

The whole fitness and health craze has raced around for the last many years and is a multi-billion dollar business these days. I have no problem with that, as I see it as a helping sponsor and encouragement to exercise for better and healthier lives; well for most of us, and don’t you think that’s good?

When I recall my childhood (1832) and fitness, it consisted of playing club-soccer, training 3-4 times weekly from I was around 5 years old; in Denmark we all bicycled everywhere and when the frozen lake could carry me and my keyed on skates, my Mother had to constantly drag me home in the dark, way past my bedtime; I couldn’t get enough.

In school, PE (physical education) was a couple of times weekly. We played soccer and team-handball; we jumped over and crawled under all kinds of stuff. I don’t remember anybody telling us WHY we had to do it – only that we HAD to; but all of it spelled: fitness.

And then we grow up and we grow bigger and then we want to grow smaller, with less body-fat and wishfully decorated with hard-body features like “six-packs” abs (not the Bud’s); so we huff and we puff and we sweat and hopefully we stick to it…

I continued to bike into adulthood. Trained about 200 miles weekly and often participated in century and double-century rides (100 & 200 miles) on the weekends; I was in terrific shape, though still nerdy looking, six-packs or not.

But then one day I was suddenly scared as big trucks and other motorists seemed to race by closer and faster as ever - so that was it, I quit; one of the toughest decisions I have ever made - seriously. My new-found fear stemmed from the reality check, that if the contest came down to me and an 18-wheeler, I was the one they’d had to scrape off the pavement. Being buried as road-kill was not a pretty picture; see what I mean?

So we joined a local fitness club. I don’t think I can mention the name, as I haven’t asked for permission. All I can say is that this great club is by our local airport, but other than that, my lips are sealed (both of them). I was not trying to become the next Mr. Solar-System-Arnold-Look-Alike, with oiled muscles from limb to shiny limb – I just wanted to feel good, and that I do.

I go to the club (by the airport) about 4 times weekly. Half of the time I enjoy exercising and the other half I just feel it’s something I have to do and therefor lack the joy of doing so.

During those many years of huffing and puffing, I have lost approximately 676 pounds (that would be 307 kilos if the metric system is your thing). Surprisingly enough, during those same years I found approximately 662 of those pounds again - and I wasn’t even looking for them; go figure.

Averaging a weight-loss of a bit over one pound annually isn’t impressive, but that’s also okay. I know I can do better, and right now I’m actually doing a heck of a lot better, thank you – lost over 14 pounds since January; and lost them for good, it seems like.

According to the pedometer I got some 20 months ago, I have walked over 2,500 miles (4,000 kilometers), which is like walking all the way from San Francisco to Atlanta (Georgia) or from Stockholm (Sweden) to Rome (Italy) to Copenhagen (Denmark) – and surprisingly, my feet are not even sore… It’s actually cool to keep track. You’d be surprised how much you actually walk in a year. Of course it helps to walk the dog a few times daily and get on the treadmill at the club – by the airport, but even everyday walking adds up – and it’s so darn good for us.

In the club I try to stay focused by listening to music on my iPod and when on the stationary bike, it’s Chopin in my ears while reading books off my Kindle. The time in the seat goes a lot faster that way – just get it over with, is my basic attitude.

I watch in awe how some of the people at the club go through their routines. When I go early in the day (5:30AM) there is a woman who is tearing through floor-exercises with a purpose. I am really impressed and inspired watching the energy and dedication; it makes me step it up a bit.

The staff is friendly and smiling, makes you feel we are on the same team, encouraging you with smiles and a bit of passing-by chit-chatter. I socialize a little bit; found a few club pals. For the most part I get going, get it over with and then get out. No matter the quality of the daily workout, I always feel great afterwards, mind, body and soul – never fails.

Yes, we do have the guys (aren’t they everywhere?) who suck in their bellies and pump out their chests when any female walks by – kind of cute, though, because what do I care…

Yes, we also have the few guys, who are pumping and pushing, huffing and puffing, groaning and moaning, loudly banging the equipment around for more attention, while sweating as if they were a sub-division to the Hoover Dam. They get up after every set and walk around in small circles, to see if anybody is watching them. I quickly look down, while continuing reading “Heidi” and giggle… they are so immature, because nobody cares – nobody is really impressed, huh?

The feeling we experience after a really good work-out, long walk or hike is fabulous, it really is. Encouraging feel-good chemicals are being released in our bodies, and any stress level sinks fast. If you haven’t tried it lately, go ahead, give yourself a treat. You don’t need fancy equipment, tight-fitting Latex (oh, baby…) or much of anything to get a program together.

Though I have never done drugs let alone being dependent on any (other than my wife, of course), I can only imagine what it’s like. But I do know that the fitness drug is healthier for mind, body and soul and I can highly recommend it, because it is actually rather awesome – just takes a tiny effort; and you can too.

See you at the gym – by the airport… 

MOST IMPATIENT PATIENT

I don’t know about you, but I am terrible at being sick – the irony is that it makes me sick just to think about how impatient I am. What it is I am lacking, is the understanding of being a good patient, which is the patient who only thinks positive and works hard towards recovery. But I am the most impatient patient to be found – at least that’s what I’m told, over and over.

Luckily I am rarely ill or bedridden. I have the occasional cold; but I can’t even remember the last time I was forced to lie horizontal for other reasons than to sleep and stuff. But this last week changed my otherwise stellar record – I was diagnosed with a partial torn something or rather. That’s some stuff in your knee-area that are being ripped to pieces for some reason, floats around and gets in the way of nerves and hurts like hell. That’s about as deep a medical description you’ll get from me. This “condition” has roamed around for a very long time, with me hoping it would eventually go away by itself – well, it didn’t.

The doctor told me what it was, what needed to be done and what the expected recuperation time would be. I have never been anxious or nervous about stuff like that – just something that needs to be done – same with dentist visits, etc. Just get it done – no big deal. I’m a great admirer of “prevention”, and have been lucky never to have needed anything major in the cutting & cast department – never broken any bones and that kind of stuff.

But my HUGE deal is the fact that I’ll be off track for weeks. That is the part that I do not handle well at all. I’m an expert telling other people how to deal with stuff like this. But in the case of myself, I preach to deaf ears.

Now don’t sit there and figure that I am oblivious to the seriousness of people being hit with medical conditions vastly more important than what I have been dealt – so far. That is not what I am talking about. It’s the immature fact that when I have been kicked off the track like this last week, with more weeks coming, that I do NOT think outside my own little, pathetic box, hating people who (pathetically?) mention again and again: “But it could have been worse…” From where I see it, through kaleidoscope eyes of me, me, me & me, it is not that comforting – far from (I mentioned already it’s immature, didn't I?)

My wife drove me to the surgery center. Again, not the least bit nervous or anxious. I was soon ripped away from my wife (just to bring some drama into the picture) and soon interrogated concerning me actually being me; name, rank and serial number – again and again. Her name was Gretchen and the process was hilarious – it really was. I was on track and we laughed our way through something that might have been and probably is rather boring and tedious if you do it every day, and many times every day. It was my first time and it looked boring to me, so I spruced it up a bit – so we laughed a lot.

Then the proverbial asinine hospital robe. Now who the Hell designed these pieces of embarrassment and total lack of respect and practicality? I’m sure they must have shot that person by now – many patients would; and if we haven’t, we should.

First of all the pattern of small wild flowers on a robe that is too small and ill-fitting, is not the macho image I normally portray. And they want the vastly open part to be in the back? I’m sure I don’t understand the logic in that. I mean, in case of a heart attack, is it more important to get to the back-side of the patient or would easy access to the front be it? (Where most of our hearts are located) But besides the practicality or not, those pieces of intimidating cloths are all butt-ugly. But they forced me to wear one – had five nurses holding me down, which was actually the highlight of the day – giggle, giggle…

Soon I had two nurses hammering on my hands to find a vein to stick some plate into, to connect IV’s for drips and stuff. But what these two nurses didn’t realize was that my juiciest fantasy ever involves two, hopefully registered nurses, slapping me around on the pre-op table. I told them and the slapping intensified immediately – Oh Lord, have mercy on me (or close your eyes)…

The surgeon showed up and explained a bunch of stuff to me. My only concern was that if any scars would be the result of this procedure, could he make them show a Viking ship in fierce battle off the coast of Northern Denmark. For your information it will be three small spots, if even that – not even close.

The Knock-Out doctor showed up in all her energy and “no big deal” attitude. What she didn’t know was that I was looking forward to be knocked out – really. Just imagine that we can actually do this to somebody and this somebody can’t feel a damn thing, no matter how much cutting is done. I think it’s fascinating – and as quickly it had started, as quickly it ended. And I was rolled out to the curb, carefully stuffed into the car and home I went – still dizzy and starting to realize that I had to be a patient patient from now on till Hell freezes over. The part I hate so much.

I’m fine doing things for the people around me. It is something I do automatically, never thinking of being paid back in kind. But I am very uncomfortable when people around me want to help me, especially when I’m “normally” very self-efficient with just about everything.

So here I’m placed in bed, my right leg, very puffy knee and all, elevated on four fat pillows, feeling the throbbing of pain and pain and pain. Sure I got some great pain-killing stuff, but though it’s a great feeling, it does not kill the pain as advertised. It just makes you not give a crap about the pain – there is a difference.

Now I wobble around on crutches, which in itself is an art-form. Though they help alleviate some of the pain, and I mean PAIN, they don’t do it to my satisfaction at all. So I can’t move; I can just lie there being asked over and over: “Can I get you anything?” I would love to answer (so maturely): “Yes, out of this crap (meaning pain & suffering)”. But I try to be nice and: “No sweetheart I’m fine (even when I’m not)”

I hate being a bother to other people, but more so I despise being out of control. I want to go pee when I want to go pee and get it over with within a minute. Now it’s hacking up with bloody crutches, wobble through stuff on the floor, navigate furniture and pets, finally make it out there, do your thing, wash the hands and back into bed again – all in less than 30 minutes, duh? And it hurts like Hell…

I want to get well so bad, that I do EVERYTHING I have been advised to do. My wife is a terrific nurse (in real life as well), so I’m in the best of hands. But though I do what I MUST do to limit my time in this condition, I am still whining like a true professional – and seriously, I’m really sick of it; aren’t you?

See you next Monday – without those *&^%$# crutches and pain, please…