If You Were A Vegetable, You’d Be An Irritato

The missus and my physician have colluded to force me into an appointment next month.  If I don’t make the appointment, my prescription for blood pressure medication won’t be refilled.  This bites.  Generally I visit a doctor only when I’m jetting arterial spray, but my wife has been relentless lately.

I actually had planned to have a physical examination done after January 1st as part of a goal of mine to lose the rest of my excess weight (okay, RE-lose SOME excess weight and lose the rest of the weight that I hadn’t lost during the initial campaign…’kay, that’s stupid.  What I mean is that I lost a lot of weight some years ago and kept it off until I quit smoking last year, whereupon my metabolism stuck a wicked big twisty rusted knife in my back before rolling over and lapsing into a coma) and ANYWAY the main point here is that I’d hoped to avoid getting on the scale at the clinic before I’d gotten close to the weight loss goal.  I would monitor progress in the meantime via the kinder, gentler scale we have here at home.  Home scales are your mother, quietly admonishing you for that second sandwich eaten over the kitchen sink, suggesting that instead you might want to take a brisk walk around the block.  Clinic scales are bitch-goddesses with strap-ons.  I don’t like the clinic scale, mommy.

So now (except for the table-creaking fried chicken dinner of which I partook* last night) I am brimming with discipline and purpose.  Salads and soups or cereals for supper Monday to Friday, no exceptions!  No cookies, cakes, pies, ice cream, or fried foods.  Add a couple more mornings on the treadmill at the gym (I already do at least three mornings per week but I can manage, surely) or intervals up and down that bastard hill outside our apartment here.  Avoid driving the car when I can ride the bike (easy).  Thank the Gods I put down the cigarettes and started the gym again, because at least this time I’m not starting from scratch and I’m not anywhere near the weight I used to be.

It would be nice to greet my 49th birthday in better shape than I’ve ever been.


I love the eerie autumn and winter months;  I love the atmosphere.  In pagan circles it’s thought that during the month of October the veil between worlds is thinnest, and I can see why.  I love cold and fog and I’m looking forward to strapping the halogens on the bike and riding in the dark (and a side benefit is that, even in this bike-y town, the number of cyclists on the roads and trails decreases substantially in the cold months, so there are fewer arrogant, rude stick-insects with whom to share the asphalt).  I plan to do a lot of walking this season.  I want to walk just to walk.  I haven’t done that in a long time.

I’m currently reading Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach, and it’s a great book.  This, coupled with the change of season has my mind turning to death and what comes afterward (not in a morbid way).  I’ve never been a fan of the Islamo**-Judeo-Christian tradition of a petulant deity tossing folk into a pit of eternal fire (or ice, or river of excrement, or swarm of wasps; read Dante’s Inferno sometime to see how a repressed Italian Catholic poet would settle some scores if he were God Awmighty.  Man, that guy can hold some grudge!)  If people actually do live on in spirit regardless of what they’d done or how they’d died, and in fact all the harm done was to the mere flesh, what sense does it make to bury some murderous fool up to his neck in hot coals (or whatever) while his victim kicks back perfectly healthy on a cloud sipping ambrosia and learning to play the harp?  Wouldn’t it be easier, and kinder, for all involved to greet everyone at the gates with a handshake (or maybe a really fierce noogie if a particular he or she gave you a really bad time when you were both Earth-bound)?  Wouldn’t it suffice if, since everyone is now going to live forever in peace anyway, the bad people in Life just sheepishly admitted to the people whom they did dirty “Hey, y’know, that thing?  My bad.” and just get on to the serious business of Happily EverHereAfter?  I think so.  I could hang.

Quote for the Day: 

“When you look back on your life, it looks as though it were a plot, but when you are into it, it’s a mess: just one surprise after another. Then, later, you see it was perfect.”

*  It’s a real word.  I looked it up.

**  Okay, I’m not really sure that’s a real word, but I wanted to be inclusive.


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