Health and Fitness Journal

John and I have had plenty of good times in the course of our marriage, but things haven’t been going well for quite some time now. After talking things over with my best friend and co-worker, Gladys, I suggested to John that we go for counseling. To my great surprise he didn’t offer any resistance; he just smiled and said he agreed.

From my side of the fence I think the problems we’ve been having as a family are rooted in John’s penchant for holing himself up in his study. John works as a writer for a major news organization. He counts himself lucky since he doesn’t have to go in to the office, but can work mostly from home.

But I and Tony, our adopted son from Capri, see things differently. The downside to John working at home has been that he hardly ever leaves that study, with the exception of coming out to use the lavatory, pick up his meals, or leave his dirty dishes outside the door. Honestly, it’s like living with Dr.Jekyl.

Dr.Goolens met John, Tony and I separately and then together. He surprised Tony and I by suggesting we give John even more space to himself. “Both you and Tony grew up around large, boisterous families, so it’s natural for you to desire losts and lots of family contact. John’s not like that. Because he was an only child he was used to a large amount of quiet time before you and Tony came into his life.”

I was shattered. But Dr.Goolens was right. He didn’t mess around either with his diagnosis. The very next week he dropped by our house to ask John if either Tony or I had disturbed him since our group meeting. I must admit that bothered me slightly. But John does seem better. He even joined us to watch “Matlock” the other night in the den, so I’m counting my blessings.

I was visiting my pal Georgio in San Diego over the weekend. I’m not much of a gambler – occasionally I might play online slots or dabble in some online poker, but I’d never been inside a real casino until we visited the one on the Indian reserve. Georgio told me just to watch how he and Carlos bet, and follow their lead. That was the original plan anyway.

Once inside the casino however, I soon decided it was in my best interest to break away from the more experienced pair. We had played a few rounds of blackjack at a table run by a delectable young lady named Becky, who kept calling me “Daalin’”, and “Sweet thang.” Georgio and Carlos were probably responsible for this royal treatment as they had informed her straight away as we sat down that I was a newbie, and just there to watch.

But I wanted to ditch the guys because I noticed the old-timers around the place seemed to be eyeing us strangely. Georgio had told me that he’d never been to this casino before, but I wasn’t so sure - people seemed to know him. I slid off my stool and strolled over to a slot machine to try my luck on my own.

It was hard to keep track of time because inside the casino all the clocks had been removed. Or maybe they’d never had clocks in the first place. I asked Becky what time it was at one point, and she just smiled and said “There’s only two times inside a here, sugar – game time and show time.” They had their own language in the casino it seemed. I was a little overwhelmed, but I decided just to relax and enjoy it.

I bumped into Georgio a little while later. He was beaming. “So my friend, how you like the casino? You win big?” he asked me. He had his arm around Carlos, who was also displaying a huge row of gleaming front teeth.

“I lost a little starting out,” I said. “But overall, I’m up about two hundred.” I was very happy actually, but I tried to play it a bit cool: I frowned.

“Two hundred?” Carlos laughed. It was a deep belly-laugh. He punched Georgio on the shoulder. “You are a newbie.” He and Georgio exchanged knowing looks. “Better luck next time,” said Georgio, offering a friendly smile. Then the two of them dragged me out to the parking lot and the waiting Buick, and we made our way back to San Diego. It was a great night.

I had an important business meeting with a client to discuss an upcoming development project. I’d spoken fairly often over the phone with her but thought it a good idea to meet face to face in order to provide a bit more info before we ironed out our final construction and payment schedule.

I thought I’d covered all the bases that mattered in order to make a good first impression: tie straight; shoes polished; hair cut previously the night before; fingernails trimmed; every necessary document properly ordered and deposited in my unlocked briefcase. I expect my staff to be prepared when meeting valued clients, and I always try to lead by example.

The meeting started well. In fact it had just about wound up when as I was speaking my left leg began buzzing. I almost leapt up from my armchair in surprise. Then I noticed that Sally, the woman with whom I was meeting that day, was doing the same thing! What on earth was going on?

“Excuse me – that must be my boss calling me to see if everything’s okay,” Sally said, and reached into her purse and retrieved her cell phone. The thing was buzzing and flashing like some miniature UFO. I had totally forgotten my own cell phone – which coincidentally was buzzing away on its own. I pulled it out of my briefcase and looked at the caller – it was my younger daughter Samantha. She had given me the phone for my birthday.
She was calling to see if I was free for lunch, now that my meeting was over.

I had hardly used the cell phone; it took me months to get used to operating my Blackberry, and the cell phone was still just another black box. I was still a bit embarrassed at carrying one: for a lot of people in my generation the whole thing seemed a bit showy. I was a bit embarrassed that it had gone off, even though the meeting was technically over and it was time to break for lunch.

But much to my relief, young Sally assuaged my fears. Seeing my phone, her eyes suddenly widened and she beamed, “Oh! How cute! We have the same phone! You have super taste. Have you downloaded any ringtones for it?” “Oh, no, not yet, I replied. All the forced formality of the just concluded business meeting had somehow evaporated. “But I’m thinking of do so very soon,” I assured her.

Shortly after that we both got up, said our goodbyes, and exited separately. Things had gone well. When I got home I called Samantha. I had to find out what “ringtones” were.

My wife and I just celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary. The party was hosted by our son Jonah, and his life partner Alma. At one point Jonah asked my wife Patrice how we’d managed to stay financially sound all these years and she replied, “Coupons!” In the midst of all the shared laughter this evoked Alma took Patrice aside and I heard her whisper, “That’s very interesting, but have you heard about online coupons?” I was elated to observe that for a change the two of them really seemed to be enjoying one another’s company.

Thirty years is indeed a royal stretch of time, and I would be playing with the facts more than a little if I suggested that the whole of our married life together has been cream and gravy. There were, quite frankly, times when I caught myself openly questioning our commitment to one another.

Objectively speaking, the pair of us are solid proof of that ancient maxim that “opposites attract.” Patrice is French; I am English. She is tall; I am short. She is ten years my senior; people tell me I look young for my age. Perhaps most significantly to our current state of well-being, I am a splurge, and she is often teased, for being a bit of a miser.

This reluctance of my wife’s to loosen the family purse strings, in all fairness, while causing me a few minor moments of embarrassment, (as when she insisted I drive our car to France for Jonah’s wedding while most every other guest flew), enabled our little family to grow and prosper.

At this point in time, after a generally good thirty years of wedded life to the same woman, I am more than ready to doff my hat, and say, “Thank you Patrice, for keeping us in such good care, and clipping your coupons.”

My wife and I are having a disagreement about how to design our new baby’s bedroom. Karen insists that we have everything settled and laid out on spreadsheets before we even tend to the little things like looking at kids bedding or purchasing toys. It’s driving me to my wits’ end. I mean, isn’t having a new baby supposed to be fun?

When I was growing up I loved my room so much I never wanted to go outside. I had Star Wars bed sheets, a glow-in-the-dark Loch Ness Monster statue, and about a billion baseball cards littered everywhere. I want little Armando’s room to be like that – a spontaneous demonstration of our child’s individuality and interests.

But Karen is such an order-junkie. My plans for little Armando’s room probably have as much of a chance as seeing the light of day as I have of meeting Paris Hilton on one of my yearly business trips. I guess it makes sense since her old man was a Navy Seal. He never would speak to me. Even at our wedding. I couldn’t believe when he showed up wearing his frog suit. What a nut.

So far, Armando’s room is a little empty. All we’ve agreed on is that Amando’s daily “To Do List” will be posted on a teal green plastic Ikea bulletin board which will be mounted about three feet up from the floor, and placed to the right of the door. A few recessed pot lights are to illuminate an original Captain America poster. I hope seeing that poster encourages young Armando to live free, as much as it encouraged me.

In my office Willa, my secretary doubles as a coffee maker, in addition to shouldering her formal duties as greeter, data entry specialist, and all-round shoulder to cry on when some of us fall prey to personal catastrophes. We love Willa’s jet black joe, but recently she’s been bowling us over by serving up Japanese green tea in between shots of espresso and cappuccino.

I’ve never been to Japan because of the extreme distance between that country and ours. But I’ve long heard of the magical healing powers Japanese green tea supposedly possesses. I decided to keep a daily tea dairy to chart any health benefits which might arise due to my new habit of Japanese green tea drinking.

For the first week, just drinking two or three cups a day, I didn’t notice much of a change in my health. But when Willa reread these initial tea diary entries to me a month later as the two of us were taking a well-deserved break at my chalet, I was flabbergasted. The truth of the matter was that my production levels at work had doubled. Then tripled. I had better drink more green tea, I thought.

Other staff members reported similar surges in their office productivity levels. Randy, a senior partner at my firm, confided to me in a brief aside during a departmental heads meeting,that the tea had helped smooth things over in his on-again off-again relation with Fay Pasis, a stunning but fiery saleswoman who often visits our floor to try and sell us parchutes in case of terrorist attack. It seemed the tea had made itself a part of our lives. Once again good old Willa had added a much appreciated dash of pizzazz to our office lives.

Over turkey dinner the other night my brother Dave brought up the passing of our father last Christmas. It had been rough on the whole family when the old man bought it unexpectedly, snowmobiling without a helmet. He left few things behind when he passed, but one of the treasures found in the snowmobile’s battered glove box was a copy of Character Building Thought Power by Ralph Waldo Trine. It gave me chills when I saw it because the old man had often read it to me as a child.

Dave, who teaches law now that he’s retired from his practice, told me he’d been reading sections of Trine’s book to his law students. A lot of the younger students had never heard of Trine or his unique approach to changing habitual patterns of thinking. Dave took it upon himself to nip that one in the bud; he assigned Trine’s Character Thought Building as required reading for the final semester. It turned out to be the students’ favorite book.

I was glad to hear Dave was sharing the book. My dad had counted it among his top 5 reads, standing alongside Plato’s The Republic, and Great Sea-faring Yarns, by H.M.S. Captain Leroy Belling. I feel it was no accident that my father had been carrying Trine’s book when he had his accident, since he had loved it so. I just wish he had been carrying his snowmobile helmet too.

I’ve been experiencing five flavors of hell since I switched from being a pro golfer and spending my days out of doors, to being wedged into a decades-old rump-crunching office chair. I’m overworked and grouchy, and it’s no mystery that the root cause is sitting at a desk all day long, gazing at screens that beg me to “submit,” and “click here.” What ever possessed Bill and Melinda Gates to invent the computer, I’ll never understand.

I’m gaining weight and feeling bloated and angry. I catch myself straying from my work and typing in searches for “Tiger Woods.” Does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so, but my boss has shown little or no sympathy to my health plight. He even confiscated my little short wave radio that I used to have near me on my desk. He said it was “too much of a distraction.” That little radio was my friend.

Office injuries are so much different than those experienced out on a golf course. I’m no newcomer to the house of pain – I’ve had flesh ripped off my kneecaps trying to make a difficult shot; I’ve had punch-ups with caddies over mark-ups on the clubhouse snackfoods; I almost died in a sandtrap. But nothing I’d experienced before prepared me for the slow war of attrition I’d face when I started work as an IT professional.

After two months in the office I was sure I had caught deep vein thrombosis from lack of movement caused by just sitting stationary at my desk. My wrists throbbed from carpal tunnel syndrome. My heart had swollen to twice its size. I felt parched. I told my boss I wanted to quit. He offered to return my little radio if I’d reconsider. So I stayed.

I’m still waiting for my radio. I hope it comes soon.

When I was growing up in Canada I went to the doctor for a check-up every year. I never thought twice about it. At that time health care in Canada was provided free for all Canadian citizens by the Canadian government. But since I moved to the United States I’ve been looking into health savings accounts. I do a lot of lifting on my job and I’m getting older so I have to make sure I’m covered.

My friends in Canada have complained to me recently that things up there are changing in health care these days. I think in some parts of the country you have to pay a yearly fee for coverage now. My friend who lives in Calgary told me he just paid five hundred bucks to the provincial government to be covered for the year. It’s a whole new world since I was a kid.

The other consideration which comes up more frequently regarding Canadian versus now it seems is serious differences of quality. I haven’t yet reached a decision on this issue. Maybe it’s just a case of the grass always looking a little greener on the other side. Canadians I know are looking at getting surgery done in the US. American friends ask me about Canadian drugs.

Everyone gets old. It’s an inescapable fact of life. And yet a lot of people seem to be having trouble accepting it, including me it seems. It’s not me that’s having trouble with getting old; I’m having trouble with you getting old. Would you mind doing it a little more logically?

Case in point : I went to visit my uncle the other day. He has just turned seventy-three, and although he looks pretty good, he is starting to lose his hearing. I know the proper response to this sort of thing should be empathy, but it my case the response is anger. Barely suppressed. Why? As he gets older he seems set on also prematurely aging the people around him.

How? I’ll give you an example.

Here’s the setting: My aunt Marnie, my uncle Steblen and I are sitting in the den. A light snowfall can be seen through the picture window behind my aunt Marnie’s head. An antique grandfather clock chimes eight o’clock. I had planned to get out of my meeting with my aunt and uncle by six, by they had insisted I stay for supper. I had found it hard to refuse. Now supper is over and we are seated together for some light after-dinner conversation. My uncle cocks his head towards me and speaks:

“What…did…you…saaaaay?” he breathes, sounding a lot like hotcakes on a griddle, air hissing out of your bicycle tyre, a snake. “I didn’t say anything,” I say with a smile, back. “Whaat?” replies my uncle. He turns to my aunt, “He…said…something. What..did..what was that?” My ears are turning red. It’s…8:20. “I can’t..you’ll have to..speak..,” my uncle stammers. “I.. didn’t.. say anything,” I repeat.

At this point my aunt intervenes, “Your uncle Steblen’s having a little trouble with his hearing recently.” Oh my god. My brain is melting. I can see a bit of it pooling on the floor by my shoe.

Why doesn’t someone give him a pad and a pen? Like that Amish girl in “The Piano”. Or that hot Japanese high school girl in “Babel”. That thought reminded me of my date with my girlfriend, waiting for me at the Duck N’ Fox Pub. Listening to U2 without me. Brutal.

“I…Am…SORRY..,” I announce suddenly, glancing back and forth between my aunt and uncle as I say this. “But..I…have…to LEAVE…NOW.” I have chosen self over deaf uncle. God has cut ten years from my life as payback. But I have to leave.

My aunt looks at me as if she isn’t seeing me. How do she and my uncle function when I’m not here? Perhaps she’s crazy…Wait. Don’t think about it. My uncle looks back and forth between her and myself. “I…HAVE…,” I begin.

“Yes, yes, we know,” says my aunt, with a wave of her hand. “Steblen, Arnak has TO GOOO,” she bellows across the space separating their easy chairs. The force of her bellow ruffles the pages of a House And Garden magazine lying on the side table between them. I grit my teeth. The open page shows a vibrant grey-haired man playing with an Irish Setter. They both have great heads of hair.

Eventually I leave. When I arrive at the Duck N’ Fox I find my girlfriend has gone home. Somehow I feel I am failing in both my duties to her and my family.