Today I started once again on the road to better health.
I’ve been known to try crazy diets in the past; or employ ridiculous workout regimes, with hopes to reduce weight fast. Devising a way to negate years of abuse in just one week, why not?. Why lift a 20-pound dumbbell 10-thousand times to gain muscles? Can’t I lift a thousand pounds just once, to make it happen?
Today, as I thought soulful and sincere about my health, I poured the last of the fresh salsa on my cheese enchiladas, which in turn, I topped with fried huevos. Swallowing the last of my second, cauldron-sized Margarita, I pondered, do I lack commitment? Or maybe it’s just my genes.
(Which reminds me, I can’t wear JEANS any more unless they have mom’s elastic in them somewhere. Is that the Guess jean? Guess what my sex is people! Find that genitalia, I dare ya).
Finally, I thought how cool it would be to have this meal every day … to get up and spank the blender with a slug of tequila; then, eat a giant Mexican platter; and finally, ease into a vigorous exercise routine led by a master teacher–someone engineered from the commingled DNA of Sly Stallone and Richard Simmons–their love-bastard yoga child–as featured on the aerobic crack channel.
In just seconds a day, without dietary restrictions, you can transform your doughy self into the puff pastry of your choice. BYOOM (Bring Your Own Oven Mitts) ’cause there’s hot buns on the counter.
So, rather than do anything radical this time, I thought I’d just write an impromptu poem and have a laugh on myself, and the turning of the seasons, while strolling the meandering path to the other side of yon hill.
(Ah, hem and Ah, hem)
Long ago, in a time that was before what is known as Todayland, lived a man who was me. He/Me/I, was the fairest of his clan, save for the bits of bumps about the zone of his T. A writhing pustule, viral and venomous both, yet bound for hinterlands filled with sweet milk and mayo; and briars most sour and prickled.
The me whom I was, sauntered about aimless–without much care for much more than he, himself, and I. Sir He-him-i-me therefore he became. The boy without bruise or boggy bowel. Finest of hairs dancing beneath that taut chin. The sinew of a lion, ribbing a young torso–and more so–Sir He-him-i-me bore a box of junk, worthy of worry-free lockerroom banter.
Yet Alas, in the valley of Todayland, it doth seem that this man-o-myself totes but a sick sack of mixed and forgotten nuts, bore rinds, and scuttle flakes.
With autumn comes the withering of knees, among yellowed leaves. Loins that long for leaps of yesteryear, must needs require propping. The tale doth lag, of the tail which drags of the dragon who bloweth smoke, where once a mighty blaze arose.