Envy

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”.   

 

The Myth of Manliness

True confession . . . I do not use cologne.  Never have.  I have never really cared to be smelly with manly perfume.  I never could understand how a smell could define a man . . . especially those smells that come out of a bottle of expensive cologne.  Hey, I have been in a locker room full of smelly men and none of them smelled like Old Spice . . . no, it was a more earthly smell like one might smell around a barnyard . . . a more natural smell.  Yet, if I am to believe Madison Avenue . . . believe in the advertising agencies that populate Madison Avenue; well, then I am supposed to smell like something out of this world to be attractive to the opposite sex and to appear (or should I say, smell) manly.  My body and nose just do not tolerate being smelly.

I love the way that the Old Spice commercials use reverse psychology on the market in making fun of the “manly” man myth to sell the “manly” man myth.  I know a lot of men, and very few of them can be smelled five minutes before I encounter them.  It is a myth that earns someone, somewhere, a whole heck of a lot of money.  But it is myths that seem to drive us humans . . . and, there are a whole lot of myths about men that are floating out there in the minds of people—particularly in the minds of other men . . . and, in the minds of women, that are just not true.

MSNLiving recently had a little blurb on the myths that continue to be perpetuated about men that a whole lot of people buy into.  I have to admit, since I am one of those that the myths speak about, that I had to laugh at what I read.  The list was short, but I am here to dispel those myths . . . based on my experience of men.  Now, I realize I might be breaking some sort of ancient rite and secret of the brotherhood of men . . . for which I apologize to all the brothers out there; but, the greater reality is that I must be true to myself and express what I know about these myths.  I must take care of myself first . . . that is the American (especially for those in the male gender) way!

Myth number one . . . men are not as talkative as women.  Where this one came from . . . I do not know.  I sat through a meeting today with eight women and two of us guys . . . the other guy dominated the meeting for nearly two hours . . . diarrhea of the mouth.  Guys talk . . . they talk a lot.  Especially when they have had a couple of beers . . . watching sports . . . and, jawing while hanging out with other men.  Aren’t the majority of politicians—men?  According to research, men actually talk a little more than women when thrown into the same situation.  I am sure that some guy came up with the term, “Yada, yada, yada.”  We men are not the strong, silent types that we are always portrayed to be . . . we can yak with the best of them!

Myth two . . . men do not like to commit.  Shoot, we men commit all of the time.  Trust me . . . I am committed to lots of things . . . family, friends, dogs, not cats so much, work, beer, the wife, the kids, especially the granddaughter, more beer, photography, writing, the University of Nebraska Cornhusker (through thick and thin), the state of Montana . . . I stick by a lot of things.  Yeah, I know that they are talking about relationships, but my track record speaks for itself . . . over 32 years of marriage to the same woman . . . nearly 30 years committed to the same children . . . all of which add up to commitment.  But the guys with the white jacket with extra-long sleeves still haven’t come to get me yet.  Researchers found that men are just as committed to relationship as women are.

Myth number three . . . I don’t know too much about because I have remained in a long-term, committed (over 32 years) relationship . . . but, it is that men don’t like to be asked out.  According to the researchers being admired and asked out is the ultimate showing of flattery.  Shoot, I’d loved to be asked out . . . anyone who is willing to take me out for anything, is a friend of mine. 

Myth four . . . men don’t have feelings.  That one hurt my feelings.  I have feelings . . . do I not cry when the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers get beat in football?  Do I not tear up whenever Ol’ Yeller dies . . . every man does because every man knows what it feels like to lose his faithful companion.  Yeah, yeah, I know . . . the wife want a minute of rebuttal on that one.  Did I get misty-eyed when I dance the “father/daughter” dance at her wedding?  Did I not get angry—and flip off the driver from another state which we won’t name—Wyoming, when they cut me off and made me nearly run into the borrow ditch?  Did I not lament when I accidently forgot to flip my steak on the grill and it go over-cooked?  When my last beer got knocked over by the dog?  We men have feelings . . . ask my banker each month when I have to pay the monthly bills.

Men are intimidated by strong women . . . that is myth number five.  I want everyone to understand, I live in a world of women . . . strong, opinionated women . . . determined women . . . bossy women.  My catch phrase, even beyond the wife, is, “Yes, dear.”  It is a pretty impressive group of females that inhabit my world . . . and, surprisingly, I admire them.  I admire them and that puts me right in there where research states that 99 percent of the time men are intimidated by strong women . . . instead, they are attracted to them.  I just wish that once in a while, they would let me open the door.

This next one, myth number six, cracked me up . . . cracked me up so much I just had to go out and tell a couple of the guys what I had read . . . but, it was that men don’t gossip.  No, we call it lots of things, but we do not call it gossiping.  Shoot, I know lots of men who gossip . . . every little town that has a coffee group that meets five days a week at 7:00AM . . . whether they call it a men’s club or a Bible study group . . . gossips.  Some of the best gossip come from men because most of the time we get it wrong.  The fact is, that men actually gossip more than women . . . we call it talking business . . . 33 percent of men indulge in daily gossip, whereas only 26 percent of women.  Trust me, I know it is true because I heard it at coffee this morning!

None of the myths that were shared in the article really fit me or any of the men that I know.  I know that we men are not the mythical creatures that people think that we are . . . despite the fallacy of commercials like Old Spice.  We are not some sort of macho image of manhood that exists in John Wayne movies (naw, I like to think of myself more along the lines of the Clint Eastwood image than John Wayne) or even Old Spice.  Nope, we are basically human beings attempting to make our way through this journey we call life.  We talk a lot . . . we gossip with the best of them . . . we cry . . . we commit . . . and, strong women turn us on . . . we are normal.  And, no two of us are alike.  God created us each as unique individuals with a lot of qualities that fit into all the realms of gender.  A myth should not define us . . . no, our lives should define us as the individuals that we are created to be.  I am who I am.  Toot!  Toot!

Which brings me back to cologne . . . I still don’t like it.  I don’t like being a lingering smell that fills a room for hours after I left.  I don’t like smelling like a bunch of smashed up fruit and herbs.  If that is manly . . . well, then, I am not too manly.  No, I rather smell like I smell.  It has never bothered me before . . . maybe because I have such a lousy nose.  Whatever the case, I have never defined my manliness by how I smelled . . . I smell okay.  I am John . . . that is good enough for me . . . and, it should be good enough for anyone else.

Manly Getting Older

Maybe I should quit reading MSN.com.  It seems every time I read an article on that website I only create more worries for myself.  The last time it had to do with the heart, this time . . . getting older.  MSN.com had an article, Five Things Men Most Fear About Aging . . . I was surprised that they only came up with five!  Heck, I could write a book about the things men worry about when they get older.  But, this article caught my attention and I decided that I should respond.  Especially since I prescribe to the Alfred E. Neuman school of philosophy, “What? Me worry?”

Number one on the list was impotence.  Shoot!  Since I have never been that impotent to begin with . . . who cares?  I think we make to much of being impotent in our society today.  People are only as impotent as they think they are.  What?  Oh . . . the wife just informed me that it is I-M-P-O-T-E-N-T not, I-M-P-O-R-T-A-N-T . . . never mind.  It is no business of any one whether I feel impotent or important.

Feeling weak was the second worry.  I have been called a wimp my whole life and I equate wimpiness with weakness . . . so why would I start worrying about whether or not I have any strength . . . that I am getting weak.  Once a wimp, always a wimp . . . I’ll just be an elderly wimp.

Irrelevance.  Lots of men fear retirement and getting older because they fear becoming irrelevant.  I don’t worry about this too much thanks to the federal government who keeps messing around with Social Security and retirement.  Since I started paying into Social Security they have constantly raised the age to where I will probably be dead before I get to start drawing any money.  Since I will be working until the day that they plant me in the ground, I really don’t need to waste time about my relevance at work.  They will just prop me up in the corner of the room.  I also don’t worry about this too much because I am pretty irrelevant at work already . . . basically I am the token male.  When women take over the world will any men be relevant?

Driving . . . men worry about losing their driving privileges.  Now, this is one I might worry about.  I enjoy driving . . . especially by myself.  This is my time to meditate, groove to some tunes, and get lost in my thoughts.  I guess in a way it is a sense of freedom issue, but I see it as a more practical issue.  If I am going to die in a car I might as well do it myself than to leave it to someone else . . . selfish, maybe, but at least it is honest.  I can handle my poor driving, but others make me nervous.  At the same time, the article said that losing one’s ability to drive signaled the fear of having someone else take care of them.  Having someone else meet the basic needs.  Shoot!  Anyone who wants to take care of my needs only has to give me a call . . . I am ready, but will they be?  I have some pretty extensive needs!

The last one?  Losing one’s mind (or the spouse’s mind).  I don’t worry about that too much as you can’t lose that which you haven’t found.  People tell me I lost my mind a long, long time ago.  I am already terrible with names.  My wife tells me I forgot conversations we have had.  I am thankful for calendars because they help me remember what day, month, and year it is.  I already do not make decisions as I have plenty of people who have been giving a piece of their minds for years.  And, if I do lose my mind, well each day will be a new adventure.  People better hope I learn some new jokes because they are going to get tired of the jokes I have now.  Losing the wife’s mind?  Heck, she can just ask me where it is as she has been giving it to me since we started dating!

Impotence . . . weakness . . . relevance . . . driving . . . losing one’s mind . . . is this the best that they could come up with?  I thought that is what they called a “mid-life crisis”!  I have lost all of those and much, much more since stumbling out of my twenties.  As Doris Day once intoned, “Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.”  Worrying can kill you.  I think the best thing that I can do at this point, as I grow older, is to take one day at a time and make sure all my insurance policies are paid up.  I think I am going to be around for a while longer and I want to make the best of the time I have left.  What!  Me, worry?  Shoot, I am a man . . . I can handle anything!