Tip for the day

Isn't it strange that evolution would give us a sense of humor? When you think about it, it's weird that we have a physiological response to absurdity. We laugh at nonsense. We like it. We think it's funny. Don't you think it odd that we appreciate absurdity? Why would we develop that way? How does that benefit us? I suppose if we couldn't laugh at things that don't make sense we couldn't react to a lot of life. I can't tell if that's funny or really scary. Calvin

Don’t struggle to change. Struggle strengthens what you are trying to change.
- Cheri Huber

A day without laughter is a day wasted.
- Charlie Chaplin

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Thursday, August 9, 2012


Since I wrote this article I have found I cannot walk more than a half a mile without the calcium crystals in my knee start to tear up my joints ligaments and tendons and they are migrating to other joints. That, arthritis,  and some other issues prevent me from returning to any gainful employment. It has even started to hurt to type because of my wrists and thumbs, so I am rarely in the mood to write. Meanwhile my doctor and I have been switching de-inflammatory meds every few weeks and I take a steady diet of prednesone. Still, I have managed to lose over thirty pounds in spite of little exercise, hence my lack of posts and re-posts of previous articles. I can no longer drive the truck because of being unable to put on the seat belt or shift. please forgive me. It's been a series of unfortunate events the last year or so.

I was released to go back to work the other day, and in this economy, I probably will have to take a job that's either semi-physical, or a sit down job that really, really sucks. I'm at my best when relating face to face with people, so a pharmaceutical or sales rep of some kind would be pretty good, but it would take some level of fitness, if for no other reason than for appearance and of course I'd need to get in and out of a car. I was in my thirties before someone told me eating is not a speed sport and I currently look like a Bartlett pear made out of Jello.

After relatively no physical activity for about two years from leg surgeries I am in horrible shape. I developed hail damaged drumstick like bulges of fat at the top of my legs. Fortunately my stomach covers a lot of it. A week ago I embarked on a physical fitness routine with a cheerful upbeat attitude of someone about to be beheaded. Previously finding the remote to the TV was the most strenuous part of my day. As much as I want to get in shape I refuse to watch Richard Simmons 'Sweatin to the Oldies'. Every time I watch him I want to strangle someone with a jockstrap.

I've decided to work my way up to dork-walking, which is one step down from jogging slowly . I'm not sure what the real name for it is, but it looks so stupid it must be good for you. 
I see people with their tongues hanging out their mouths sporting fierce looks of concentration. 

power tools
Occasionally they perform dork-walking with their little weights in their hands in headbands briskly striding up the street, their cheeks inflating and deflating as if they were trying to blow up an onion sack. 

There appears to be little impact. It provides stamina and a way to strengthen the heart and lungs. Impact is something I am supposed to avoid for my knees sake. (I got rid of my red cape and finally quit jumping off buildings.) As near as I can tell you are supposed to get to the point you can throw your hip out of joint and not feel anything.

Aerobic exercise is just a cool sounding name health clubs came up with so they could charge you for classes and not call it jumping around. I've got to wonder though, if walking is so good for you why does my mail man look like Jaba the Hut.

I'm amazed at my current lack of recuperative abilities. It really makes me aware that I am at the tail end of fifty. No matter what I used to do, I recovered from anything within forty eight hours max. I could live off beer and chips for three months at the age of forty and be ready for a five K in a week. I could consume six times as much food as minimum daily requirement and not gain a pound. Nowadays after walking about five blocks, I feel like Bluto used to after Popeye beat him to a pulp, just another organic pain collector on his way towards oblivion. I'll huff and puff, sweat dripping down my nose as I stagger into the house and flop in the lazyboy. How in the world one can get a crick in the neck and shoulder pain from walking, and my God, the agony of getting up the next morning. I crawl into the bathroom and have to loosen up to brush my teeth. Oddly therapy doesn't seem to be able to prepare you for walking. We're talking about a guy that twenty years ago was doing triathlons. Recovering this slow gives new meaning to resolve.

I think I'll keep posting about this sojourn for a while. Maybe it will keep me honest.

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