| DGouldthorp | member since May 2009 |
Senior MomentsJuly 20, 2009, 11:22 am Senior Moments With Gouldthorp(July BONUS) Plenty. Take Mike, Sally, Jimbo and Peggy-Sue. How ‘bout Alexis, Buffy, Charlotte and Mo.? Throw in Ravi, Alejandro, Zahur, Vashti, Liam and Olesia and you’ve got the makings of a chorus to reprise Coke’s famous old advert, “I’d love to teach the world to sing….” We’ve all got a name. It’s the blessing or the curse that’s on our birth certificate. It’s the moniker we’re stuck with; how we get called to dinner or how others refer to us in our absence. They evoke images and stir memories. Some names carry the scent of crisp linen and gentle spring breezes; like Katelyn and Chloe, while Bartholomew and Nicholas transport us back to Dickens’ sooty London. Others conjure the essence of danger on a dark, damp night; like Damien or Spike while the whisper of Chantelle whisks me back to a sun-drenched sidewalk café in Paris hung heavy with the aroma of chicory coffee, Gitanes cigarettes and her – ahem, but that’s another story… Of course, if you don’t like the handle that your well-intentioned (or stoned-out-of-their-heads) folks hung on you, you can always change it (and others’ perception of you) with a legal name change or simply by reinventing yourself. John can change his nationality in a flash by becoming Jean-Claude; and Petunia, God bless her, can finally hold her head high at the club when she morphs into Brittany (but why, dear Lord?). Heck, for the right amount of money, little Danny who quietly moved out of the neighborhood a couple of years ago can return in pink taffeta triumph as Danielle. Our titles also serve to define us; some lofty and praiseworthy, others not so much; Surgeon, Police Officer, Teacher, Chef, Homemaker, Drug Lord, Steelworker, Troublemaker, Interpreter, Fashionista, American Idol Hopeful, Town Drunk, Politician and Convicted Felon (hey, the last three could actually be the same person, right?). The title I cherish the most of course is Dad, although the word has two distinct and opposite meanings. On the one hand, it means The Smartest Man in the World while on the other; it means The Meanest Man Who Ever Lived. Sorry son, just because your buddy’s Dad treated him to tattoos and a tongue ring for his birthday… But we all love titles don’t we? Well, the important-sounding ones anyway. Many years ago I landed a job with a major airline at an international airport with the impressive title of Hardware Manager, North American Division. Only problem was that the job was actually on the night shift, loading food and drink carts onto outbound flights. Oh well. But the guy with the best title of all was an old Greek gentleman who loaded the fifty-yard-long dishwasher in the airport’s flight kitchens, starting and stopping the conveyor belt whenever necessary. His title was Aquatic Workflow Evaluation Engineer. Who needs more than minimum wage with a handle like that? Over the years, I’ve proudly worn many hats with a multitude of titles; from Rookie to Head Cheese and pretty much everything in-between. However, the ones I’ve liked the least have been recent and unspoken. By that I mean there really isn’t an official title, per se, for the trifecta of being overweight, getting old and living with a disability. All of us here in the NutriMirror family have a common bond, which is that we all recognize that we need to do something about our weight, right? Maybe we’ve lived with being heavy for years; maybe the weight gain has been recent. In any event we know there’s an issue. We don’t need subtle jibes to remind us. “You really look good with a few extra pounds on you,” isn’t really a compliment. “Let Dave have the last slice of Pizza; he’s eating for two,” might be hilarious to the others at the table, but it’s like a knife to the heart. So late last year I decided to do something about it, and with the help and support of the NutriMirror family as well as more than a few hours in the gym, I’ve dropped some weight; enough for friends to notice anyway. One said, “Hey, skinny, look at you!” Skinny – hadn’t heard that in a long time. As far as being old and disabled; sure I’m old, but I ain’t dead – yet - and yes, I have a problem with my back, ok? See, the last time I checked, there was nothing particularly wrong with getting old. I don’t like it one bit and it’s not a very graceful process but what the heck, it happens to everyone. Tempus fugit and all that. Same thing with being disabled. It just means that something in my body wore out and gave up, like the brakes on my old truck. Since I can’t find any paperwork that says all my bits and pieces came with a lifetime warranty I just have to get on with my life with my glass half full. So I’m classified as disabled. So what? Being disabled does not mean that my IQ is lower than my age. I speak the language quite well thank you, so you do not have to address me loudly; or slowly. I simply said I was disabled, nothing more. It does not mean that my life is filled with pity parties and endless days of inertia on a food-stained couch drooling over KFC and Dove bar commercials. Yes, I can manage most activities perfectly well on my own, thank you, and no, I’m not the idiot who always parks on an angle, taking up all three spots in the handicapped section. I go to the bathroom all on my own, just like big people. And thanks all the same but I can cut up my own food. I don’t need your help; I have teeth. And no, they don’t come out. You don’t have to refer to me in the third person. But since you ask, yes, he is feeling well today, thank you. Actually well enough to whup your butt if you don’t stop bothering me. Want to help? Then go away. Sorry for the rant; it happens when my Geritol wears off…. Anyway, since my mind has gotten into the decidedly bad habit of writing checks that my body can’t cash, I found myself questioning why I was standing in the middle of a bunch of lean, mean riding machines on a chilly Saturday dawn preparing to set out on a group bicycle ride that was advertised as long, hilly and devoid of restaurants or bathrooms. Blame it on the Geritol again, I suppose. It was a long day in the saddle, slowly grinding up all those never-ending hills one pedal stroke at a time while a little voice in my head kept asking, “What the hell were you thinking?” The idea of quitting popped into my head occasionally, but giving up was never an option. My goal was simply to complete the ride as confirmation of my commitment to living a better, healthier lifestyle. At the finish, we all congratulated each other with whoops and high-fives. One young fellow rode by and patted me on the back. “Nice ride, Dude,” he said with a smile. Dude? At my age? I reckon that’s a handle I can live with. Remember, it ain’t over till they screw the lid on.
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