Conundrum of Time . . . the Magazine

I must admit that I had plenty of time to consider what I would do . . . at least two weeks.  Two weeks prior to publication Time magazine announced that Donald Trump, president-elect of the United States of America, was selected as “Person of the Year”.  It caught me off-guard; it shouldn’t have even though it did . . . I was alarmed.  A person of Trump’s magnitude and reputation—for better or worse, would not have been my first choice for the “Person of the Year”.  It got a rise out of a lot of people . . . irritation, anger . . . and more anger . . . confusion . . . frustration . . . offense . . . and sadness on one side, while great joy and bragging came from the other side. It all depends on which side of the fence one was on.  You were either “for it” or “against it”.

My first gut reaction was that I would return the magazine to Time, Incorporated . . . a “return to sender” message for a choice I wasn’t pleased with.  Lots of people had that reaction.  The other was to throw it in the trash once it arrived or to give it away.  Some I know were going to burn it upon arrival.  But the whole magazine would have lots of other articles to be read besides who was the “Person of the Year”.  I like reading the articles . . . why else would I subscribe to the magazine?  With that mindset, the issue became how I would sneak the magazine into the house without the spouse seeing it.  My spouse is an ardent anti-Trump person and would not want it to cross the threshold of our home. 

 

Yeah, I had two weeks to consider what I would do . . . two weeks!  When the issue arrived . . . well, I was no closer to a decision than I was when I learned the news of who the “Person of the Year” would be.  It was a conundrum.

 

The criteria for Time magazine’s “Person of the Year” is simple: “The individual who, for better or worse, did the most to shape the world and headlines over the past twelve months.”  Whether one likes it or not, president-elect Donald Trump fits the bill.  It feels as if he has been in the daily news since he first ran for the presidency in 2015—ten years and running, the American people have endured this reality sit-com . . . and we are about to start four more years of daily Trumpism.  For better or worse, we are stuck with him.  Crazy sells and the news market knows it.

 

Thus, Donald Trump should come as no surprise as the “Person of the Year”.  I imagine that in his mind he won hands down with the greatest landslide victory over his competition in the history of humankind.  Whatever the case, the choice definitely got a reaction.  On one side was the thunderous standing ovation from all the die-hard loyalists.  On the other side was a gut-retching groan of misery.  Whatever the case . . . it sells.

 

Time magazine is just as much a business as it is a journalistic periodical.  Its goal is to make money.  Do you remember last year’s “Person of the Year”?  Taylor Swift.  Knowing the popularity and selling power of Taylor Swift, the magazine issued three versions with three different cover poses of the singer. Hundreds of thousands of copies flew off the shelves.  Time sent out nearly a million copies to the stores—and they sold out.  It was a 365% increase over its normal distribution of a single edition.  Time magazine sells for $14.00 an issue. That’s a lot of moola!  Taylor Swift set the record for “Person of the Year” sales.

 

You think that caught the attention of the great orange one?

 

With no love lost between Swift and Trump since the last election when she encouraged her followers to vote against the president-elect . . . well, the Donald picked up the challenge . . . especially when it looks like he is getting his butt kicked.  Trump proclaimed, “I HATE TAYLOR SWIFT!”  Trump hates being considered a “less than” and in the “Person of the Year” race with Swift he is way behind.  Time hopes that he can do at least half of what Taylor sold. Again, that is a lot of money.  They have their person and are whistling all the way to the bank. 

 

That’s the American way.  Love it or not.

 

I am not among those lauding Time magazine’s choice for “Person of the Year”.  I didn’t quite retch at the announcement, but rolled my eyes towards the heavens proclaiming, “You’ve got to be kidding.”  Then the realization . . . the stupid magazine is going to come to my mailbox!  What am I to do?  Return it to “sender”?  Throw it in the trash?  Package it and send it down the street to that neighbor with all the Trump flags?  Put it in a brown paper bag and try to sneak it into the house? Or, surprisingly, tear off the cover to reveal one of the other three covers that Time magazine put on the magazine as a means of getting an “out” of the conundrum it created when naming Trump, the “Person of the Year”?  That’s right!  The magazine had three other covers with the issue . . . Lisa Su as the “CEO of the Year”, Caitlin Clark as “Athlete of the Year”, and Elton John as the “Icon of the Year”.  All worthy of the cover, even though I had to look up who Lisa Su was.  Burn it?

 

Alas, I just carried it into the house.

 

I have read the articles . . . each selection had an interview article written to go with the award.  And, yes, I even read the interview of Trump.  There was nothing new in the article to learn about the president-elect.  It is the same old baloney he has been spouting off since his first presidency . . . same old scary meanderings of a person who has made it difficult to respect or admire him.  With him it is more of a “icky” feeling and response.  In the end, the magazine hit the trashcan once its purpose had been fulfilled. 

 

Though many of us believe that there were more worthy individuals deserving of the “Person of the Year” designation, the magazine served its purpose:

·        It created a response . . . no one can deny that.

·        It announced that the circus was back in town . . . at least for another four years.

·        It gave the “great orange one” a little more ammunition to feed his ego (as if he needed any of that).

·        It made Time magazine a lot of money . . . which made its investors happy . . . and the rich got richer.

·        And it ended up being more garbage in the dumps.

Conundrum . . . Trump as “Person of the Year”.  Though surprising, he fit the criteria selected by Time magazine.  We might agree or disagree.  We might have even had a few other designations we might have given him before naming him “Person of the Year”, but none I can put in this blog.  As far as I am concerned, Trump is Trump . . . as crazy and vile as he is.  He only becomes something important—like the “Person of the Year” if I acknowledge him as such . . . and I cannot.  I will not.  My opinion doesn’t count for much . . . won’t sell a lot of magazines.  That is the name of the game . . . the American way.  Money speaks and we are paying the price.

Garbage it is.

 

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”.