TIME TO MAKE YOUR RESOLUTIONS

I am very good about making New Year's Resolutions.  I'm just not worth a darn in keeping any of them.

 

Five years ago I decided to simplify my resolutions.  But the list down from 43 or so to just 5 good ones.  I had way too many.  I wanted to pick 5 that were really worthwhile.

 

Here it is five years later and I have the same resolutions.  Each year I just scratch out the date at the top of the page and insert a new date.  2008 coming up!

 

My number one resolution is always to lose weight.  I don't put how many pounds I want to lose.  But it's a lot.  A friend told me I was so fat it was like carrying an overweight housewife around all day.  Along with her Kirby vacuum cleaner.  Those things weigh a ton.  I keep gaining weight every year but I think it's the woman that's gaining the weight.  It's no wonder I move slowly.  It wouldn't be so bad if she would vacuum once in a while while I waddle around.

 

My number two resolution is always to clean my office and get organized.  I don't really care about this one.  I just put it on the list mainly for my wife.  She thinks I need to get organized.  She's afraid I am going to die and she will have to deal with all the stuff.  Personally I think being organized is highly overrated.  You file stuff away and you have no idea what you have or where you put it.  Last year I hit upon the idea of putting everything in stacks and putting the stacks behind me so they are out of sight.  This way I feel organized.  Out of sight; organized.  I used to have an assistant and she filed all my stuff.  Or so I thought.  She put it in file drawers chronologically.  When I would ask her for a certain thing she would always ask me, "When was that Mr. Adams?"  And then she would start searching.

 

One of my other resolutions is to read one good book a month.  I've since scratched out "a month" and also the word "good".  That should make it easier.

 

My goal to get healthy is giving me a lot of trouble.  I've had cancer surgery, six eye operations, and a stroke which I have been recovering from for the past five months.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not whining.  I know that doo-doo happens.  And I was brought up to accept things as God's will.  But I am beginning to wonder, WHY ME? 

 

What I really want to do this year is WAIL.  I want to build a Wailing Wall out back.  I admire those old middle eastern women who are out wailing their lungs out.  They are not crying.  They are wailing.  And I think it's probably very therapeutic.  I've tried it a few times.  It always makes the dog bark and my wife yells, "Stop that wailing you crazy old man."  But so be it.  I plan to wail if my newspaper gets wet.  I'll wail when I misplace my keys.  WAIL, WAIL, WAIL.  I may let my neighbors come over and wail at the Wailing Wall.  We might have to have certain hours for

wailing so we don't become a public nuisance.

 

I've joined a gym and I have a personal trainer now.  This is part of my quest to get healthy and fit. I almost didn't join because they had a 5-page questionnaire you had to complete.  One question was: have you ever been on a diet?  I said: Yes.  Then they asked: Did you lose weight?  I said: Yes.  They wanted to know how much weight I lost.  I said: 3 pounds.  They asked: How long were you on a diet?  I said: 32 Years.  Which is the truth.

 

My trainer is a cute woman so I will probably continue to go.  My therapist before this was a guy who looked like a chipmunk.  He was a drum major in school and wore a kilt.  He wouldn't tell me whether he wore underwear or not.  But I'm sure he did.  He wouldn't be a high-stepping drum major without his drawers on. 

 

At the gym they have big colorful rubber balls in the back.  People use them to exercise.  I thought they were training seals.  When I found out that people lay across these balls and do various exercises, I told her flat out that I wasn't getting on a ball.  And I want to take this opportunity to say publicly to the person who invented these balls for exercise: STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.  Whatever happened to touching your toes?

 

 

I JOINED A GYM THIS MONTH TO AVOID THE RUSH

I decided to avoid the January rush and join a gym in December.  Nobody joins a gym in December with the Christmas table laden with goodies.  But recently I saw a boxing match on TV and when they showed the fighters' statistics, one weighed 140 pounds and one weighed 142 pounds.  I thought to myself, "Jez.  I'm so fat it's like carrying a full grown boxer around with me all the time. No wonder  I move so slowly.  Or like carrying a full grown housewife.  And her Kirby vacuum cleaner."  That thought was all the incentive I needed.

 

I'm in Phase VI of recovering from a stroke back in July.  I not only joined the gym, but I got a Personal Trainer named Amanda.  She's cute.  Mainly she giggles as she leads me from one

torture chamber to another.

 

I got the distinct impression that the gym works much like used car lots...they assign cute young

women to sell to old fat guys.  And they assign male hunks to sell the women who come in.  But that's o.k.  I don't mind  having some Eye Candy while I work out (which is a euphemism since I have not yet sweated).  Amanda has a sweat shirt that says FIT HAPPENS.  She bounces around so much I was sure she had been a cheerleader in college.  I asked and she

was.  I asked her to do the splits and prove it.  But she did a cartwheel or two instead.  That proves it in my book.  I often wondered what happens to cheerleaders once they grow up.  I

think a lot of them peak early although they were always highly prized Date Bait when they were active. 

 

Before you can get on a machine at the gym (which in itself requires a  lot of dexterity), you have to fill out a 5 page questionnaire.  Health things and personal questions.  One was: Have

you ever been on a diet?  I answered: Yes.  Another question was: How much weight did you lose?  I answered: Two pounds.  Another question was: How long were you on the diet?  I answered: 32 years.

 

Then you have to sign a complex 5 pager legal document promising that you will not attempt

to sue the gym in the event that something terrible happens to you.  I wouldn't sue them.  All

they have are a bunch of exercise machines.

 

This gym is rather sedate.  At the moment.  the place is scheduled to expand into one of those

Disco-type gyms...the ones at which half-naked people go to meet other half-naked people amid loud music and flashing lights.  I don't think my membership allows me to go on the Disco side.  I know my heart wouldn't allow it.

 

Right now there are more women than men.  I guess they care more about their appearance.  But they are Old Chicks and mostly very skinny.

 

One lady rides a stationary bike next to me.  If it were a real bike she would be in Santa Fe by

now.  But she doesn't go anywhere.  She watches TV news as she pedals that sucker.  Next

to her is another woman who rides the bike and is reading a Stephen King novel which takes longer than pedaling to Santa Fe.  I don't know how she can read and ride.

 

Another personal trainer was working with his client (that's what they call us...clients, not

customers...not even members).  He had her on a table and had twisted her legs around so

much she looked like a human pretzel.  Without salt.

 

(This is an aside so I will put it in parenthesis.  But I have a certificate as a Certified Pretzel

Maker.  I got it  in Pennsylvania years ago where they have a Pretzel Making School.  You laugh,  but it's a lot more difficult to make a pretzel than it looks.  You don't lay them flat and

twist them.  You roll them out like a worm...pick up the two ends...and you flip/twist while they

are in the air...and if you are lucky, they turn into a pretzel.  This is all done in one move. My graduation certificate remains one of my proudest accomplishments and I hope my family remembers to include this in my obituary.  I think I should probably write my own obit now because I feel as if the family might have forgotten some other good stuff.  People do write their obits ahead of time and some file them with the NEW YORK TIMES.  My lawyer said he would die if he doesn't get a big piece in the NEW YORK TIMES so he updates his obit every year and files it along with a photo from his college yearbook.  He's now 87 years old, but he's still

using his college yearbook picture.  So much for obits.  Except for the fact that long ago, newspapers used to run them on the front page of the newspapers.  This was before they really had any Hard News.)

 

They have clocks all over the gym...and time does not pass quickly when you are grunting and groaning.  I may be the only person who grunts aloud.   I'm deaf and I can't hear when I groan.

But apparently I am scaring some of the other "clients". But other clients are scaring me.  In

the backroom they have about a dozen big, big rubber balls in bright colors. I thought they were

training seals back there. But, no!  They make clients get on these balls...stretch across them

to do exercise routines.  I told the trainer right off that I was not getting on a ball.  First of all, it

might explode and wouldn't that be embarrassing?  She claimed they would hold 500 pounds but you never know and I'm not taking any chances.  She tried to play Dodge Ball with me but I could not dodge a ball that holds 500 pounds.

 

In the new gym we will have changing rooms.  I think I am past my getting naked even in front

of a bunch of other men.  I think I might fit in better on the women's side, even with my beard.

 

We have a snack bar in the current gym.  Well right now it's more like a candy store.  They have all kinds of candy bars that all have the word POWER as part of the name. And drinks

that are called POWER AIDE.  I guess power is what we all are looking for.  I know I am, and I always want to start my routine in the candy store.

 

In the new gym, we will have a Karaoke Juice Bar where we can sing and meet people.  I can't

wait.  But I'm not drinking carrot juice, even on a bet.   I'm not that desperate to meet people.

 

I AM A PRINCE. I'M PRETTY SURE OF IT.

My birth certificate says I was born in the Gastonia hospital.  It doesn't say anything about my royal personage.  But, of course, how would they know?  I mean, Royals aren't born with a silver crown in their mouths.  It has to do with your blood line. My guess is that I came from a line of Royal Gypsies, perhaps The Count of Gastonia in Transylvania, who lost his right to move up to kingdom on the Royal Ladder of Gypsy Heritage.That's just a guess.  Sure, you might laugh at me and wonder how I ever got sired by the Count of Gastonia.  Gypsies travel you know and it's a well documented fact that the Count of Gastonia came through here in 1935 via a Trailways Bus.  He got off here because the town was amazingly named after him.  He was traveling incognito at the time as gypsies often do.  Apparently he was a sperm donor at a local clinic.  It's the only way we can explain it because my Mother claims she would never have taken up (in the Biblical sense of the word) with a gypsy who was just passing through, even if swore on a goat that he was royal.  My feeling is that there might be a whole string of Royals living among us because the Count of Gastonia supported himself by being a sperm donor in the various places he travelled. Do you feel royal?  You may be a

Prince or a Princess, and chances are good that you are not being treated like one.  You've got to stand up for your rights!

 

     I felt  royal from the very beginning of life.  When I was born everybody was so elated because my Mother previously had six miscarriages before she finally had a healthy me.

Also, three of her sisters and my grandmother lived with us and they all adored me and made over me as if I were a little Prince.

 

     I was spoiled rotten. My wife says, "They didn't do you any favors", meaning she doesn't

intend to treat me like a prince.  If this were the olden days I would probably remind of of what happened to Marie Antoinette.  It was a wicked way for Louie to get her to shut up, but it worked. When you are King you can have the Royal Ax brought out on a moment's  notice.

It's also not sinful if you are King.  It's one of your many perks.  I'm not sure that this right applies to Gypsy Royalty however.

 

     I was treated royally for the first five years of my life.  But then I had to start school and

Miss Abernathy, my first grade teacher at Victory School, had never had a Royal in her class.

And without a crown or proof of some kind, I was just another snotty nosed mill kid.

 

     Later in life when my third daughter was born, we had a sure sign of royal heritage appear.  She was born with two thumbs on one hand..and everyone knows --- well, every gypsy knows --- this is a sure sign of royal blood.  Plus it makes thumbing a ride much easier when you grow up.

 

     Actually the double thumbs has been showing up every other generation on my Mother's side of the family.  My Mother had double thumbs.  She also did not have hair under her arms

and neither does Queen Elizabeth, so I am told.

 

     We had my daughter's extra thumb surgically removed  so she would not be self conscious and because my wife did not think it was a royal appendage.  When my daughter started kindergarten, she came home the first day in tears.  Apparently, on the bus to school, my two

older daughters told everyone about the double thumbs and they called my little darling a freak.

Everyone wanted to see it.

 

      I took her out on the back porch to console her and I told her that I was going to tell her a

secret and she had to pledge never to tell anyone else.  I explained  to her that in another time

and place, the double thumbs would have signified she was a sign of royalty and she would have been a Princess. Or maybe even the Queen.  She perked up at this revelation and got

a royal look as if she were sitting on a throne .  I warned her not to tell others because they would be jealous.

 

      I watched when she got on the school bus the next morning.  She ran through the bus with her crooked thumb held high yelling, "I am a Princess.,  I am a Princess.  Get off my bus!"

 

     So much for family secrets.  I still treat her like a Princess and she's now 37 years old.  She doesn't wear the crown I got her.  She says it falls off so easily when she has to vacuum.  I don't think other Royals do their own cleaning.  I can't imagine Queen Elizabeth with a vacuum.

Although she may have a Dirt Devil in her room to suck up cigarette ashes when she smokes.

I also can't imagine Queen Elizabeth going to the bathroom.  Or having sex ever.  It would be

easier imagining her with a vacuum.