At least twice a year I come face to face with
my nemesis—the scale. Twice a year I
attend health screenings sponsored by my employer. There I am poked, prodded, measured, and
weighed. I’m not sure if this is a
proactive act towards good health or a wicked reminder that none of us can
escape entropy. Entropy basically is a
fact that all things break down over time.
At this point more time has passed than remains. Trust me . . . entropy is present in my life
and my nemesis is more than elated to point this out.
I’d wouldn’t say that I have a love/hate relationship with the scale, it is fairly one sided in our relationship—I hate the scale. The scale is blunt in its assessment and revelation of the facts. There is more of me than I care to acknowledge. The scale points that out. My entropy has headed south and over the belt. Though I have never had six-pack abs, what I do have would better resemble the Pillsbury Dough-boy. The scale never lies . . . JERK!
This bi-annual encounter with the scale has created a bit of envy in my psyche. Though I try hard to not be superficial when it comes to appearances, I cannot help but notice that my physique is far from what our advertorial society deems as “ideal”. Where the non-achievable Adonis is shoved down our throats, I’m stuck on the opposite end pointing towards . . . well, I said it earlier—the Pillsbury Dough-boy. I envy those on the Adonis side. I loathe them.
This wasn’t always the case. Most of my life I really didn’t care what I looked like or how I stacked up to others. I had come to accept myself for who I was . . . a balding, slightly overweight, growing old person. Then one of the grandchildren asked if I was going to have a baby! Bless her heart. She was too young to understand the science of it all and that females were the only ones capable of birthing a child. Yes, after a while, I put her back in the will. Suddenly I became aware of my dough-boy physique and all those who were not . . . dough-boys that is. True, most were 30 to 40 years younger than me, but I envied their appearance. I longed to look like that.
Envy appeared thanks to a curious infant who wanted to know . . . are you having a baby? That and the fact that our nation will soon be led by the poster child of envy—president-elect Donald Trump. He is the epitome of envy. Just listen to the man speak about how he envies so much of the world around him . . . constantly hailing himself as “better” than everyone and everything else. Throughout his political career (in fact, his whole life) he has been envious of his opponents . . . especially their crowds. He is quick to point out that his crowds have been bigger and better than anyone else’s in history. His life is bigger and better than anyone else’s. He is driven by envy. His gold game. His mansions. His spouse. His kids. His wealth. The bragging comes out whenever his envy appears.
My favor bout of Trump envy came about when he was campaigning in Pennsylvania prior to the election. The location was Latrobe—birthplace of Arnold Palmer. There he spoke about Palmer and referred to the physical features of the famous golfer. See and hear it here. Peg Palmer Wears, Palmer’s daughter, responded to the vulgar statement confirming the “orange one’s” envy, “I think Trump seems to be fairly obsessed with these things, just like crowd size.” The president-elect—the most powerful person in the whole world—has made envy acceptable. If it is good enough for the president-elect, then it is good enough for me.
As much as I want to embrace envy . . . I can’t. Brad Pitt is hanging out somewhere in that Pillsbury Dough-boy physique . . . just waiting to be released . . . to be set free. No one exiled me to the “land of popping fresh dough”. As much as I wish I could, I have no one else to blame for my present demise and shape. It is my fault. My inactivity. My gluttonous behavior. Though it seems to have silently snuck up on me over the years . . . I have no one to blame except myself. Envy seems the best way to deal with it . . . the easy way out.
Loathing is not the answer to the source of my envy. No . . . we all know the answer to ridding myself of this envy. Diet and exercise. Neither are any sane person’s ideas of a solution. But the reality is there. Towards that goal I have started walking more. The dog loves that. But that is not enough. I bought a stationary bike. What a vile piece of torturous equipment! I can see why for most people it becomes a clothes rack. Yet it is necessary if Brad Pitt is ever going to return. It is the only way . . .
. . . only way I can reclaim that slimmer and trimmer version of myself. Yet there are moments. Moments when the lungs are burning and pushing for any air, they can find . . . when the legs are aching . . . that my mind thinks, “Envy ain’t so bad. Plus, it is easier on the body.” Then I think of how ridiculous envy makes one look and sound . . . think of Latrobe, Pennsylvania and Arnold Palmer . . . the “orange one’s” remarks. The stationary bike doesn’t seem so bad after all. I don’t want to be like “the Donald”.
