Prisoners of Our Own Devices

Excuses, excuses, excuses. That is my favorite device to keep things on an even keel. I don't like change. I am a prisoner of routine. I won't bunge jump--my hernia prohibits it. Won't talk to strange women--fear of mace. No risky investments. I let business opportunities go by. Too many variables. My excuse for not losing five pounds--that flab is part of my identity.
I should clean my bathroom and avoid fungus. But it's so painful to kneel over the tub. Getting to know my neighbors means expecting them to ask for favors. One after the other. No privacy. No time to myself. I can't be solving other people's problems. I'm no one's taxi service.
I should smile more, but if I did, people would expect me to be happy all the time. Who needs that kind of pressure? Creating an overall philosophy to live by seems dubious when I could get hit by a bus any time. I have stockpiled hundreds of excuses, enough to build a verbal barricade against intrusive change.
My calling card is non-existent because I refuse to call on anyone. Too many nuts out there. I'm home where it's safe and I don't need an excuse to close the blinds.

Falling in Love With Love

It's much easier falling in love with passion than with love. No promises or commitment. Quick, sloppy, foolish, with lots of saliva. No maturity needed. Love requires selflessness, wisdom, compromise, perspective. Phooey! Sounds like work.
I loved my parents, but I am passionate about butternut squash soup. I love the feeling of sunlight on my skin, but am passionate over dabbing spurts of sugar free pancake syrup on strategic spots.
I love and respect professionals in whatever field, but nothing can match the excitement of doing the rumba alone in my rom after a tough day of making decisions.
If I had bigger forearms I'd roll up my sleeves more. If Romney had done that he might have won. Just a private thought I'm sharing with readers I respect, maybe even love, but, sadly, will never be passionate about. It's me, not you.

Thanksgiving Workout

My gym was closing at noon on Thanksgiving. After running a few errands, I decided to go for a quick workout. It was after eleven and I figured I'd be the only one there. Wrong. The place was packed. Young people, mostly.
I assume this was a guilt workout. Knowing they'd stuff themselves later, they wanted to work off excess calories and give themselves permission to engorge with family.
But suppose something else was going on. Suppose none of them had a family and this was a way to congregate with people on this holiday which demands we have someone to spend it with. Maybe after the gym closed they would meet in the underground parking lot and chat about nothing, dreading to leave and confront the rest of the day alone.
I didn't stick around to verify. I had a blog to write, a CVS sale to case in on and my power walking in the park to complete. This year was too cold to attend the parade, much too chilly to watch the skaters at Bryant Park. At three I'd be at my sister-in-laws watching football. When my brother died in 2009 something vanished from this holiday that will never return.

Fashion Faux Pas

I accidentally spilled coffee on my white t-shirt and became fascinated by a stain that resembled Greenland. I began experimenting with different blends on all my shirts, sprinkling or spilling it on the fabric from different angles.
The patterns were exotic and visually arresting. I was invited to a party and as soon as my friends saw one of my shirts they wanted to create their own designs on me. I lay down on the kitchen floor and the host began by spilling cranberry juice on me. Others quickly followed with grapefruit, apple, and prune juice, chocolate pudding, eye drops, Rice-A-Roni, grape soda and soy milk.
They left me there to dry while they retreated to the dining room for pizza. I just closed my eyes and waited for someone to return with tomato sauce to top things off.
I may have started something.

A Turkey Ruminates

I could sit here and complain--if turkeys could sit. Why me? Why us? Why not buffalo meat on Thanksgiving? All year humans consume chicken as though their lives depended on it. Chicken soup, cutlets, tenders, salad, cache tore. Suddenly, one day a year, we are the ones slaughtered.
I can't even find anyone to play cards with. All gone. Last year I faked a limp. This year I'm hoping to fool them by hoarse gobbling, like I have a sinus problem. Poor cousin Wally. Ended up with a New Age family who stuffed him with tofu.
The other day I was conversing with a yam--don't ask its name, all yams look alike to me--and it was whining about its own fate this wretched holiday. At least you can waddle away, it sobbed. I'm stuck in the ground. I think it was having an anxiety attack.
The worst part of this is surrounding us with stinky Brussel sprouts. What sick culture concocted this outrage? They'd better come up with one helluva gravy for me, mushrooms included. Mushrooms just accept their fate. Cowards.

The Magician Within

Every child is a magician. They enter a room full of grumpy adults and immediately smiles appear. Quiet becomes noise. Motion escalates. Adults compete to get the tyke's attention.
Infants are totally magical. Without blinking or raising a finger, they can turn a sweet smelling space into a mens locker room. The pungent, colorful mass periodically emitted from their mouth has its own texture and viscosity. Children can make things disappear. A cat, a pet turtle, money left out, and liquor from the cabinet. Socks and underwear vanish under the bed.
Okay, maybe they're evil magicians, but by some trick of light or deft misdirection, they have somehow convinced us that they are worth keeping around. Except the kid next door who plays his drums at all hours. I wish David Blaine would make him vanish.

Trespassing is An Art

Privacy annoys me. Who decided we have a right to conceal? A strong society is one built on truth. The more we know about each other, the deeper the truths.
Here is my technique for violating someone's privacy. I could say it's none of your business, but everything's your business.
First I suggest we sit someplace quiet. Then I buy them coffee and a pastry. I always look neat and presentable, like someone you can trust. I'll compliment them on their appearance. My, have you been hitting the gym? That is a good look for you. All you need is a sombrero.
Then I'll mention a news item like Obamacare and really listen to their opinion. I'll mix in frivolous stuff like all those cat postings on You Tube.
Next, and this is vital, I'll reveal something personal about myself. I'll detail the evolution of that growth on my hip and what treatment I'm undergoing. Now the other person feels guilty if they don't reveal something about themselves. I'll start small and ask about their mom's health.
Gradually, as they open up, I'll sneak into more intimate areas. Are your bunions under control?
The flood gates will open and all sorts of personal information will be released. Their boss's attitude, did your kid get drunk, did you poison the neighbor's ocelot? Where are your rashes located?
Then I'll buy them a second cup. Soon they'll be revealing just about everything. Set up a second date to finish the job. Always look concerned.
Privacy may have been important at one time, but this is The Age of Reveal.