CALORIE WARS - Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     I grabbed the rope at both ends, put it behind me, then brought it over my head and jumped.  As I was in mid-air, I looked down; there was my stomach.  It hadn’t left.  In the next instant, my body snapped back like a rubber band, colliding with my stomach with such force that it sent me sprawling.  “Are you okay?” asked Ralph, running over to help me pick up all my calories that had spilled on the pavement.

     “I think I’ll be okay if you can just carry me into the house, and let me rest in your recliner.  Yeah, that’s good.  Say, could you turn on the baseball game, and bring me a slice of pizza?  I’m feeling much better now.”

     With the arrival of winter, I thought I had escaped any thoughts of exercise.  Then my wife turned on me.  You’re looking a little pale,” she said one day.  “I don’t think you’re getting enough exercise. 

      “Are you collaborating with Ralph?” I asked. 

     “No, not at all,” she answered.  “I just thought you would feel better with a little exercise.”

     “Well, I’m not jumping rope.”

     “You don’t have to jump rope.  Why don’t you try cross-country skiing?”

     “Okay, okay, maybe.  Let me think about it, and I’ll let you know in July.”

 

     “You know there won’t be any snow then.”

     “I know.  I thought that would be the best time.”

     “I still think you would feel better with some exercise.”

    I finally decided to try cross-country skiing.  Almost immediately, my color returned.  My cheeks were rosy, and the rest of my body was black and blue.

     One of the first lessons you learn when cross-country skiing is how to stop, probably because that’s what you’re always trying to do.  To stop, you use a method called snowplowing, where you point your toes together, so your skis form the shape of a “V.”  Although this is intended to slow you down and eventually bring you to a stop, I’ve used it primarily for clearing obstacles out of my path, such as snow banks, brush, and other skiers.  This may be why they want to outfit my skis with cleats.

     Next they teach you the art of falling which I picked up quickly, having mastered it years before without skis.  Falling is a remarkably simple technique, which is normally done in one motion; in the “blink of an eye.”  I stand for several seconds before I go into my fall.  After completing the fall, I check all my body parts.  If everything is still attached, I get up and practice some more, being careful to space my bruises evenly.  Although falls can be quite repetitious, it will help you master this art.

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CALORIE WARS - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     
      I grabbed the rope at both ends, put it behind me, then brought it over my head and jumped.  As I was in mid-air, I looked down; there was my stomach.  It hadn’t left.  In the next instant, my body snapped back like a rubber band, colliding with my stomach with such force that it sent me sprawling.  “Are you okay?” asked Ralph, running over to help me pick up all my calories that had spilled on the pavement.

     “I think I’ll be okay if you can just carry me into the house, and let me rest in your recliner.  Yeah, that’s good.  Say, could you turn on the baseball game, and bring me a slice of pizza?  I’m feeling much better now.”

     With the arrival of winter, I thought I had escaped any thoughts of exercise.  Then my wife turned on me.  You’re looking a little pale,” she said one day.  “I don’t think you’re getting enough exercise. 

      “Are you collaborating with Ralph?” I asked. 

     “No, not at all,” she answered.  “I just thought you would feel better with a little exercise.”

      “Well, I’m not jumping rope.”

      “You don’t have to jump rope.  Why don’t you try cross-country skiing?”

      “Okay, okay, maybe.  Let me think about it, and I’ll let you know in July.” 

      “You know there won’t be any snow then.”

      “I know.  I thought that would be the best time.”

      “I still think you would feel better with some exercise.”

      I finally decided to try cross-country skiing.  Almost immediately...


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CALORIE WARS - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment)   

  
     Years later, I was still trying to keep tradition alive.   One day I walked into my favorite lunch stop.  Calories saw me coming.  They prey on the weak and unsuspecting.  I was weak, but I suspected something.  1700 calories were hiding in my double meatball, marinara-slathered sandwich.   As soon as I let my guard down, they jumped me.  It was a pathetic sight.  The sandwich had to be pulled off me. 
   
    Calories, who were once my friends, were suddenly turning on me.  They used to burn so easily.  Now I couldn’t get them lit.  I was dealing with an aggressive, new strain that was burn-resistant.  I began to collect them.  Weight made a house call.  I slammed the door.  It was the beginning of the “Calorie Wars.”

    I tried to change my ways, but calories would call me in the middle of the night.  “We know where you are,” they would whisper.  “We know how to find you.” “There you are.”  I finally wrapped the entire refrigerator with duct tape. 

    If I kept putting on weight, I would have to serve the calories with a restraining order. 

  

     Finally, the day of reckoning arrived. (I hate days of reckoning.)  I had my picture taken for the local newspaper.  The photographer had to take a panoramic shot to get all of me.  I would have to start leaving food behind.  My wife agreed.  “You look much better in x-rays,” she said. 

     “Good,” I responded.  “Maybe next year we can do a family x-ray that we can send out with the Christmas letter.” 

     Not long after my wide-angle shot, I bumped into my friend, Ralph, at the mall, almost knocking him to the floor.

     “You okay?” I asked. 

     “I’m fine,” he answered, “but you should think about getting some exercise.” 

  

     “I don’t mind thinking about it, as long as I don’t have to make a commitment.”

     Ralph loved to jump rope.  One day he gave it to me while I was relaxing by his pool.   “Here, why don’t you try skipping this rope?” he asked. 

     “I think I will skip it.”

     “No, no, why don’t you jump rope?”

     “Can’t you read my t-shirt? No jumping or skipping allowed.  I might be able to step over the rope if it was lying on the ground.  But, for safety reasons, my body has banned all jumping and skipping.” So I politely declined. 

     Being a friend, he insisted.  “Listen, you just sit by the pool all day.  You never go in the water.  A little exercise would be good for you.” 

     ”Okay, okay,” I said.  “Give me the rope.”  

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CALORIE WARS - Opening Segment (Scroll down for previous chapters.)


       I have always thought it would be great if weight loss was as easy as letting air out of an over-inflated tire; just a brief hissing sound and presto...back at your ideal weight!  But it was never meant to be simple.  It was meant to be warfare. 
  

     With the beginning of a New Year, I’m hearing that familiar battle cry…“This year I’m going to lose weight!”  Prepare for war, because calories will not leave without a fight.  Some of you have fought this battle.  Even I am a war-tested veteran.  

     

      Just the other day, I was out for a walk and became temporarily disoriented.  By the time I got my bearings, I found myself standing in an ice cream shop.  Without warning, I was attacked by a gang of calories.  It may have been two or three gangs.  I tried to fend them off, but I was no match for all of them.  Before I could break free, I had sampled every flavor.  On the way home I watched with a wary eye for another possible ambush.  

  

     In my youth, I could burn a truckload of calories daydreaming.  They were my friends.  I would turn over rocks looking for them.  I could always find them at Grams’.  It was Calorie Central.  “Eat, eat, eat,” she would repeatedly tell my cousins and me.  So we ate, ate, ate…biscuits and gravy, and bacon with an extra side of grease.  Lard was a delicacy.  The calories complained of overcrowding.

       At Grams’, overeating was not just a requirement; it was a tradition.   Anything less gave the family a bad name.  If you could get up from the table under your own power, you hadn’t eaten enough.  That could mean exile to Blue Goose Bucksnort.   I did my part to keep tradition alive.  

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IMPORTANT DATES AND THE PERFECT GIFT - Final Chapter

    My wife, on the other hand, has no problem with this.  Just the other day she announced triumphantly, “I found the perfect gift for you.”

     “What’s the perfect gift?” I asked warily. 

     “It’s an HPS,” she answered. 

     “What’s an HPS?”

     “It’s a ‘Husband Positioning System.’”  It’s a terrific little device that can be attached to your belt or suspenders.  It gives you the exact location of the clothes hamper, with opening and closing instructions.  It also gives directions to the clothes closet, with instructions on how to hang your clothes, how to fold and place your clothes in your drawer.  There are directions to other exotic locales as well, such as the garbage, washer and dryer, and the dishwasher, not to mention the vacuum cleaner, duster, and various other handy tools.  It will even re-calculate if you miss your turn and walk by garbage that needs to be taken out.”

      “Wow, you can’t beat those features.”

     “Yes, and it even warns you if there are distractions ahead, such as a ballgame on TV, or a fishing pole calling your name.”

      Personally, I love a good distraction now and then.  Nevertheless, I agreed to try this new gadget.  I was surprised by the voice giving instructions.  It sounded like the voice of my wife.   Wherever I went, the voice would say, “Distraction ahead.  Make a U-turn right now.  There is a better way.”  I finally turned off the HPS and picked the distraction of my choice.  

 

     “How do you like it?” my wife asked the next morning.

     “I’m afraid the technology is far beyond most husbands,” I answered.

    “I guess I’ll have to return it and get my money back,” my wife said, disappointingly.

 

     “While you’re doing that, I’m going to take this old fishing pole out to the lake, and see if it has any fish left in it,” I said as I jumped in the car and sped away.

      Life was good again.  I was enjoying the perfect gift.   

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SHOPPING DISORDERS AND THE MALL SPIRIT- Segment 4


        To sort out the matter, I decided to read the article.  I discovered a person can give the wrong gift.  Fruitcakes--a delight of Christmases past--are now on the list of gifts that are unacceptable.  So it ISN’T the “thought that counts.”  The article stated that a fruitcake is one of the gifts you’re mostly likely to get a return on, whether it’s returned the day after Christmas or the following Christmas. 
  

     After giving it some thought, I returned the Fruitcake I had just received from a friend, informing him that it was no longer in the “thoughts that count” category.  I hoped it wouldn’t mark the beginning of a long, drawn-out Fruitcake War.  I didn’t want to find any roadside fruitcakes that had to be detonated.  Not taking any chances, I bought a fruitcake-sniffing dog. 

     My friend wrote back, suggesting we call it a rotating “Trophy Fruitcake.”  He would keep it for a year, and then I would keep it for a year.  I wrote a reply.  “Nice thought,” I said, “but I don’t think the fruitcake would be up to it.  You can keep it.”  I haven’t heard from him in several years.  Not taking any chances, I kept the fruitcake-sniffing dog.  

    

      Even though my wife insists it’s the “thought that counts,” I’ve decided to surprise her for our anniversary this year.  Instead of giving her “thoughts that count”, I have some “good intentions.”  I hope she likes them.  Of course, the biggest problem with “good intentions” is that they’re hard to wrap, and I never have enough wrapping paper. 

   

       I had some “good intentions” for her birthday, but they got misplaced, and I never did find them.  So my body just sat, or reclined; I don’t quite remember; whichever was more comfortable.  Fortunately, after a neck adjustment by my wife, an alarm went off, and a message flashed across my brain screen, “Abandon Recliner, Abandon Recliner!  No, your lifesaver is not under your recliner.  It can be found on aisle 12 in the jewelry section at Macy’s.  You must hurry!”

         It’s always nice to get some help when you’re looking for the perfect gift. 
 

     My wife, on the other hand, has no problem with this.  Just the other day she announced...


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SHOPPING DISORDERS AND THE MALL SPIRIT - Segment 3

     I’ve been chasing the perfect gift for a good part of my marriage.  It’s always in the back of my mind.  But it’s so far back, it’s difficult to reach.  My memory doesn’t like the long trek, so it rarely goes there.  I think it’s afraid of the dark.  With such an undependable memory, I often have to resort to the advice my wife gave me shortly after we were married.  Realizing I was afflicted with S.A.D. (Shopping Anxiety Disorder), she consoled me by saying, “It’s the thought that counts.” 

     So the following Christmas, I gave her some of my thoughts.  She gave me a piece of her mind.  Apparently, the thoughts that I gave her didn’t count.  “No,” she said, “When I say “It’s the thought that counts,” I mean you don’t have to look for a big, expensive gift, just something small and inexpensive.  Well, not too inexpensive, just something that shows you’re thinking about me. 

    The next Christmas, I looked for the perfect gift that would fit in the “thoughts that count” category.  After days of frantically rummaging through purses, diamond rings, high-fashioned accessories, and some nice thoughts in several major department stores, I found a nice refrigerator magnet.  I was hoping my “thought” would count.  It did.  It was our first refrigerator magnet as a married couple.  We stood, hand-in-hand, admiring it on the refrigerator. 

      For her birthday, I got Connie a large bouquet of flowers.  “These are beautiful.” she said.  “Where did you find them?”

    “In the neighbor’s yard,” I answered.  “’Thoughts that count’ require much more creativity.”

     One Christmas I was sitting in my recliner, staring out the window, shopping for some new thoughts, when I was interrupted by an article in a popular magazine that said it might not be the thought that counts.  I was immediately thrown into a state of confusion, a state where I had once sought residence.  Do my thoughts count? Or don’t they count. What if I kept my thoughts to myself?  Would they count?  Who would even know?

     To sort out the matter, I decided to...

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IMPORTANT DATES AND THE PERFECT GIFT - Segment 2

     When I do get an important date in my sights, it’s usually behind me.  Just the other day, while driving to work, I looked up, and there, in my rear view mirror, was an important date.  It was tailgating me.  I hate tailgaters.  So I tried to outrun it, but it stayed right behind me.   I finally pulled off the road and stopped.  It pulled off the road and stopped.  I got out and walked to the back of the car.  Taped on the back window was February 14, pictured with a heart and a box of chocolates; a little creative reminder from my wife.      Rushing to the store, I encountered numerous other men pawing through the chocolates.  They must have had the same date taped to their back window.  

  
     There is a rare breed of men who seem to remember every important date.  But they are extremely hard to find.  I was fortunate enough to see one on display at our local museum.  He was discovered at a nearby archeological dig.  I think he dated back before my time.  He was still holding a box of dried chocolates and petrified flowers.

     The cause of death was head trauma; a blow to the head from another important date.  This is why I’m thankful my wife keeps track of all this…like Cow Appreciation Day.  I would forget that day every year if it wasn’t for my wife.  Even then, I have trouble sending a cow flowers, considering the run-ins I had with them as a kid.  

   

     It’s hard enough keeping track of all the important dates, but even more elusive is the perfect gift.   It’s this elusiveness that causes my anxiety level to reach critical mass.  As soon as I enter a store in search of the perfect gift, I’m like a deer in headlights. I don’t know which way to go.  I give a body fake one way, then the other.  Not knowing which way to run, I freeze, and immediately become an ornament on someone’s shopping cart.  One day I expect to find myself mounted on someone’s wall, over their mantle, still peering through the cart. 

      “That’s an unusual rack.  Where did you bag him?”

      “In the mall; I was hunkered down behind a ‘clothes blind.’  He walked around the ‘blind’ and froze.  My cart hit him square-on.” 

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IMPORTANT DATES AND THE PERFECT GIFT- Opening Segment

     As I was standing in the checkout line of our local grocery one evening, I noticed a large throng of men, possibly numbering in the hundreds, gathered at the card rack.  “What’s going on?” I asked the clerk.

     “Tomorrow is Mother’s Day,” she answered.

     I knew there was something I had forgotten.  It had been in the back of my mind, but it was so far back that my memory had been unable to reach it.  I immediately dropped everything and ran to join the masses.

      Sweating profusely, I realized there were no more Mother’s Day cards.  That meant I would have to buy a get well card and re-write it to fit the occasion.  Then it crossed my mind that I might need a get well card for myself, possibly even a sympathy card.  I grabbed several cards, along with a bottle of whiteout, and went to find the perfect gift.  My choices were wilted flowers or stale chocolates.  I settled for the cards and whiteout. 

  
      Then I heard the clerk paging me. “Would the gentleman running through the store with the glazed look please return to register three and pick up the items you dropped?  They are blocking the aisle.”       

    With a calendar filled with special occasions, and more waiting to be added, I learned quickly the purpose of marriage.   It’s not to be fruitful and multiply.   It’s to have a wife that will remind you of important dates…”I hope you haven’t forgotten that tomorrow is our anniversary.” 

   

    “Shoot, I thought it was Dead Fly Day.  Just kidding!  How could I forget our anniversary?”  I’d better see if my life insurance is paid up.

  Occasionally a man will stumble upon an important date without being reminded…“Oh! Tomorrow is the beginning of fishing season!  My memory must have made a temporary comeback.”  

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SHOPPING DISORDERS AND THE MALL SPIRIT - Final Segment (Previous segments below)

     Several days after returning home from the black hole of shopping, Connie was off again on another money-making venture at the mall.  She hadn’t been gone long, when my irascible cousin, Lester, stopped by for a visit.  He walked in just as I was catching my breath.  “It looks like you just finished running a marathon,” he said.

    “No, I was just wrestling with that age-old question.  What do I get my wife for her birthday?  Just when I thought I had the question pinned down, it got up and knocked the wind out of me.”

     “I can see why you’re huffing and puffing,” said Lester.  “It’s a question that’s turned many strong, self-made men into blathering idiots.  For weasels like us, it’s even more challenging."

     “What do you get a woman who has every magnet in the world?” I asked Lester.  “Her jewelry box is overflowing, and the magnets are two-deep on the refrigerator.”

     “Maybe go three-deep?” quizzed Lester. 

    When Connie returned later that night I approached her with rare bluntness.  “What would you like for your birthday?” I asked. 

     “I’d love anything,” she answered.  “Remember, it’s the thought that counts.” 

     So I thought about it.  It wasn’t long before I realized I was getting low on thoughts.  I wasn’t sure how many were still in stock.  I might have to resort to an actual gift.  I started getting nervous twitches.   A skin rash was beginning to appear.  My anxiety level was climbing toward overload.  I looked around the house for my stick, thinking I might round up a wild boar.  I went outside for some fresh air.  Just when my thoughts were running on fumes, a bright light appeared in the sky.  It had to be the Mall Spirit.  I followed the bright light.  It led me to a car dealership that was offering free balloons and hot dogs to anyone who would listen to a sales pitch.  I listened to the sales pitch.  Then I went home. “Happy Birthday,” I said, handing Connie a hot dog and nice balloon. 

     “How thoughtful,” she replied.

     “I decided you had enough magnets."

  

     With my S.A.D., it was nice to get a little help from the Mall Spirit.  

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SHOPPING DISORDERS AND THE MALL SPIRIT- Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     I had heard of the Mall Spirit, but this was the first time I had seen it in action.  I called Fred.  “Maybe your wife is just under the control of the Mall Spirit,” I said.  

   

     “It’s very possible,” answered Fred.  “I know it’s not my Spirit.  Last week she woke up in the middle of the night, saying a voice kept telling her the drought in southern Chile was getting worse.  I tried to tell her it was my voice, telling her our pocketbook was drying up.  She refused to believe me.”  

     “It must be the Mall Spirit,” I said. 

     I learned that if you’re not forever vigilant, the Mall Spirit can catch you by surprise, and it’s not easy getting out of its grasp.   

  

     Just recently, my wife and a friend were preparing to go to the mall... just the usual routine: some long distance running, a little weightlifting, qualifying time trials on the shopping cart obstacle course in the Wal-Mart parking lot---the graveyard for just-used shopping carts; typical preparation for holiday shopping. 

    “Would you like to go with us?” Connie asked.

   “I’d feel safer bounding through the forest with a large rack and white tail during hunting season,” I answered.

    “I’ll buy you a new tie if you promise not to snag it on the brush as you’re bounding through the forest,” she went on.

     Being good-natured and thinking I could spend my time sleeping…I mean, reading at the bookstore, I went along for the ride.  It began just as I had planned.  I was sitting in a large, soft leather chair enjoying a good book.  Realizing I was in my element, dozing in a comfortable chair with a good book covering my face, Connie walked over and said, “Wake, come and look at this pair of pants.  I think you would like them.”  This is when I could sense the Mall Spirit nearby.  With little warning, my time of relaxation was about to spiral out of control into the black hole of shopping.  I was about to be caught in the web of the Mall Spirit.

     Before long I had a pair of pants, shoes, shirt, belt, and tanning lotion, although I think the tanning lotion was for the Mall Spirit.  It happened so quickly I had no time to react.  My wife said it was a bargain.  I agreed.  I never question a bargain.  I crossed that line once.  I didn’t like what I saw, so I jumped back behind the line.  Afterwards, my wife helped me see how we were actually making money.  If it’s 50% off, she takes the 50% she saves and buys the gift.  The other half she pockets.  The more she buys, the more we save.  So I got a loan to invest in more 50% off sales.  It was a great little money-maker. 

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SHOPPING DISORDERS AND THE MALL SPIRIT- Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments) 


     “I’m sure my wife’s immune system would resist it,” he insisted.  “The doctor told me her case is the worst he’s ever seen.  She just left today on a seven day mall tour.  If they don’t get some rain soon in southern Chile, my pocketbook will be facing a severe drought.” 

     After his wife had returned from her mall tour with a pocketbook as dry as southern Chile, she agreed to try the drug. 

     After a couple of weeks, I called.  “How did it work?” I asked. 

 

    “I thought it was great,” answered Fred.  “We were out shopping, and she walked right by a 90% off sale.  She just yawned and said she needed to get home so she could re-plumb the house.”

    “It must be working,” I said

    “It was until it wore off,” Fred continued.  “Now she’s gone on a twelve-day hunt for a trophy chair.  I had to pay a plumber to come in and finish her job.” 

 

     I am happy to report that very few men are afflicted with this disease.  Just hearing the “S” word will cause most men to experience symptoms of extreme fatigue, light-headedness and nausea, with the need to lie down in front of the television.  A good ballgame will usually clear up these symptoms and lead to a full recovery.  A little fishing or hunting can also speed up the recovery.  I’ve even known some who found that a simple round of golf was a perfect cure.  My cousin, Skeeter, thought kayaking the narrows would clear up his symptoms, but he barely survived the experience.   “Next time I’ll use the kayak,” he said.  The shopping cart was recovered several miles downstream. 

      

   Although the drug for curing “RTD” has been proven effective, there are other preventive measures a person can take to avoid using the drug. 

  

      Personally, I prefer going to the mall when the stores are closed.  Mall walking in the morning, before the stores open, is a perfect time, but even that can be fraught with peril.  Just recently, I witnessed the abduction of a totally innocent mall walker.  She was walking along briskly, minding her own business and getting her exercise for the day when, without warning, a curtain on one of the stores opened up and she mysteriously disappeared.  Thirty minutes later she reappeared, apparently unharmed, but loaded down with an armful of packages.  It was an eerie experience to witness.  I had heard of the Mall Spirit, but this was the first time I had seen it in action.  I called Fred. 

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