The Old Man and the Sea...of Ladies

Hello nurse. Could you take a look at something for me? Image by Quasimondo via Flickr

I'm having trouble concentrating today. It's so bad that halfway through my research on Ritalin I realized I was reading a blog about lawn maintenance. I often have a lot of things going on, and few things keep my focus for very long. To keep a level of concentration on any one thing I am forced to shut down other parts of my brain. I think a lot of men are like this, which explains how we can play video games for a solid 24 hour period and forget to eat.

Ritalin is prescribed for people with ADHD and, because it's basically cocaine, is helpful for those with narcolepsy. Though my concentration could use improvement, I prefer to reserve the option of passing out at will (I mean, uncontrollably). I often feign sleep, complete with snoring and drool, when someone goes on too long about something or asks me for a favor. Then when I awake, I apologize and blame "the narcoleps." Eventually, with age, I hope to shape this into a believable ruse. Combined with "losing my hearing" and "forgetting where I am from time to time" I could then successfully skip out on restaurant bills and parties I don't want to attend without being arrested or hurting anyone's feelings.

Doctors are using this methylphenidate to help with depression and recovering cocaine addicts, (basically just legalizing their drug use), but no one knows the long term effects. It's literally a wait and see situation. With the changes in diet, drug use, and technological interaction I can't form a good grasp of what our generation will be like when we senior size our citizenship. I'm seriously doubting that we will be respected for our elderly wisdom. With the advent of the Internet you don't need to ask Grandpa what it used to be like in the olden days. You just Google it. My only hope for the future is that pants on women becomes some sort of taboo or masculine imprisonment of womanhood, promoted by the Great Skirt Movement. I plan on being a dirty old man with some thick sunglasses and a mirror on the bottom of his cane. That is until actual X-ray glasses are invented. What's the hold up on that one?

I'm a certified "basic rescuer" - choke on that

As penance for my ravenous blood thirst, Vanessa and I attempted to turn a 180 on the circle of life by signing up for a CPR class. It's been over a decade since either of us had been trained in life saving techniques and, surprisingly, they have changed.

We vaguely recall CPR consisting of 10 to 15 chest compressions in a very specific part of the chest, followed by a few lip to lip breaths delivered to the victim. Now it's 30 compressions just about anywhere in the center of the breastbone with 2 breaths using a mask. No mask, no problem. Due to the general fear of cootie contagions by CPR trainees, sprinkled with some scientific studies, our trainers advised that the breathing part of CPR is less important than the chest compressions. In some courses they disregard the whole breath giving exercise.

Part of the reason, much to my disappointment, is that CPR is merely a means to maintain blood flow and is rarely successful in reviving the patient. CPR-only recipients have about a 6% chance of survival. The life saving only comes into play with defibrillation and CPR is only helpful until you can get your hands on a defibrillator. Well that's a bummer. When am I ever going to shout "clear" and legally run electricity through someone's lifeless body?

How about during the most awesomest CPR training class ever!

That's right. Due to the Public Access Defibrillators (PAD) program, you can find these shock boxes (the green thing above) in lots of public spaces. Alright, so they're made for safety and don't allow you to jolt just any punk that tries to give you lip. However, if that street tough were to tell you to drop dead and you literally did, someone could revive you using this machine. It likely wouldn't be that rude spell casting kid but, with the great design of these defibrillators, any brave citizen can effectively become a hero.

The defibrillator gives verbal commands accompanied by easy to follow pictures through the entire emergency situation. It reminds you to call for help, says when to give CPR, including an adjusting metronome sound for aiding you in delivering well timed chest compressions. It analyzes the victim's heartbeat and tells you when to back away and shock them. The only thing it doesn't do is call 911 or make you a ham sandwich. Ask some bystanders for these favors if needed. All in all it's a pretty sweet device. There was disappointment though when there was no visible or audible electrical charge emanating from these things, plus the instructors told us that people don't really leap off the table when you shock them. Lame.

Our main reason for all this safety concern is our upcoming journey in parenting. We wanted to be aware of what to do if baby started choking, or worse. The practice babies were even more unnerving than the limbless adult dummies, perhaps because their heads kept popping off or perhaps because they looked like aliens, all silver skinned and wearing their rubber future people garb.

We're certified now and feel a beginner's level confidence for emergency situations. Hopefully our infant will chew her steak before trying to swallow. The most entertaining part of the day? We learned that the best songs for mentally keeping time when pumping someone's chest are Staying Alive and Another One Bites the Dust. I guess which one you put on your mental turntable depends on which outcome you expect. Just don't sing it aloud.

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Just follow this one strange tip to lose belly fat - Exercise

Image via Wikipedia

It's an odd feeling, health. Hangovers I know. Random pains I've gotten used to. Once you hit thirty they just show up, having no purpose or reason. A soothing warmth flowing through me after a morning exercise, however, is like wearing a stranger's shoes. Your feet fit in them; maybe you even have the same shoe size, but something is foreign and unsettling about the experience. Secretly though, I like feeling healthy and I hope to develop an addiction. Then I can wear undersized mesh shirts, buy organic groceries and give health tips to be people who didn't ask.

We purchased an elliptical machine about a week ago. It's something we've wanted for awhile but, when I noticed Vanessa's pregnancy weight mimicked by my own body, the urgency for getting the machine was greatly increased. I'm an off again/on again exerciser, my dedication usually determined by the fluctuating middle ground between the proximity of gym facilities and the fit of my jeans. If the gym is far away I don't go as much. If I can't fit comfortably in my jeans, distance is less of an issue. Gym membership prices are outrageous here and we became shut-ins during the winter, so to avoid becoming amorphous blobs we had to seriously consider buying something for the house. I'm sure our discussion on the topic reflected that of fitness equipment owners worldwide.

One of us said how more likely we were to work out with the equipment being in the house. One of us, likely me, said they were too expensive. There was talk about noise, and space, what if we moved, what if it broke, etc. Mix in some empty promises, subtle threats and innuendos, and an awesome sale at Canadian Tire, and boom. There is an elliptical machine in our basement.

I don't make big purchases on a whim and, to the frustration of others, I may take months just to research a product and weigh my desires for that thing against my disdain for spending large sums of cash. This often takes me through a hilly country of decision, with peaks of enthusiasm and assurance shadowing over valleys of trepidation and doubt. Basically, I'm cheap.

Maybe when the elliptical becomes just part of the scenery, like those boxes you've moved three times and have no idea what's inside, I will regret buying it. Maybe I'll never stop using it and it will be the first piece of a home gym ensemble that will add years to my life. Who knows? I'm just happy that future winters won't keep me so sedentary. Pale maybe, but active and pale is better.

Winter Woefulland

Image via Wikipedia

For those curious as to my complete blogging absence, I've actually written two new ones this month that I chose not to publish. Unfortunately both entries were contradictory to my normal chipper upbeat humor, and took turns into dark parts of my mind where no one should venture. I fear the descent into these caves myself as the walls are steep, covered in thorns and a thick mucus, making escape all too difficult. I lost my keys in there once and rather than going in after them I had all my locks changed.

Perhaps I'm one of those holiday goers with an inverse reaction to cheer but I suspect it's actually a response to this thing called winter. I am unused to both extended cold temperatures and precipitous events other than rain and hail, but I didn't expect to have this kind of mental meltdown, if you will. Snow meanwhile has threatened to swallow our home.

According to Wikipedia there is an actual reported condition called winter depression or seasonal affective disorder (SAD). They define this as "a mood disorder in which people who have normal mental health throughout most of the year experience depressive symptoms in the winter..." 'Normal mental health' may be a stretch but I can see differences in my overall demeanor and I'm having trouble concentrating for any length of time. I can only hope my friends and relatives take my SADness into account when reading my Christmas cards this year. Many of them are just signed "What's the point?" or are stuffed with random obituary clippings. Most intended recipients will be saved from the black Hallmark oddities however because my only attempts at mailing them were by feeding the envelopes into the garbage disposal or neighbors' car exhausts.

Vanessa fears that winter in this large house will get the best of me and she's happy we don't own a croquet set or axe. We were told that to get through the winter we have to enjoy it, finding outdoor activities in which to participate. My dog sled team is coming along nicely but I'm getting annoyed with the amount of "lost dog" posters cluttering up the neighborhood telephone poles. It's just tacky.

I'm torn on who should lead the pack at this point, the three legged Great Dane or the chihuahua with the big heart. Chi-Chi keeps getting trampled up front but I know she's strong enough. After all, she bit that big dog's leg clean off!

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Future Me

Is there maybe a two and under class I could join? Image via Wikimedia.

Procrastination is an ongoing problem I've been meaning to deal with for awhile now, but it's hard to be active when they keep making couches so comfortable.

Each morning I wake up with a list of things I want to accomplish that day and time has yet to become my enemy. Truthfully, I usually just wake up with a song playing in my head and I spend 20 minutes trying to simultaneously get rid of it, remember the complete lyrics, and figure out when and where I last heard the tune. On my way to work though I'm compiling my to dos. After my arrival:

Morning coffee. Emails. News. Colleague chats.

While at lunch I'm thinking of how I'm going to "really go at it when I get back to the office."

Full. Sleepy. Distractions. Funny emails. Time Passes.

Before leaving for the day I'm setting aside my work list for my home list, and as I go to sleep I think about what a failure I was that day and how tomorrow seems so bright and boundless. Long ago I learned to write "make a list of things to do" as the first entry on my list of things to do. This way I could immediately mark something off. When overtly desperate for a sense of achievement I would also add things like "take shower" and "eat."

Whether or not you create a mental or physical checklist of desired or necessary personal tasks, most of us are all too often in the habit of hyping up our future selves as gung-ho, workaholic, athletic, dedicated, and generous superfolk. In our optimistic visions of our idealistic doppelgangers we can do everything. We exercise, talk to our neighbors, make our own bread, volunteer at the local shelter, go to the library, build birdhouses, and watch PBS sober.

In the future I get up at 7AM and jog two to three miles, eat a big breakfast while watching the morning news and catching up on personal correspondence. (Sometimes I even write letters using old pen and ink on aged parchment for effect. Future me is classy.) My work day is productive and everyone is impressed with how much I can get done in a day and how my results are always so superior to any other employee, past or present, and of course future. When I come home I read two chapters of two books, one for pleasure and one for education, and I complete a lesson of Rosetta Stone with the end goal of mastering at least four languages. (Future me is a world traveler who stays with small village families, not fancy tourist hotels.) Every one of these activities is enhanced by intermittent pipe smoking while formulating a conclusion about, new idea from, or opinion over the information I've recently absorbed. Stir in some reflection, a chuckle about something funny I said earlier, and a snifter full of brandy and my evening is set. On the weekends I work on my novel and every second Wednesday I dabble in oil paints.

We all have a future version of ourselves and optimism is good in small doses. I do believe people can change and a big part of life is striving to be a better version of yourself. Just make sure there is a plane of reality where your current self and future self can meet. It is also advisable that you don't sign up for advanced Taekwondo if going upstairs significantly alters your breathing. Future you is strong and agile. You are still fat and slow.

Goodbye John Hughes

Image by MacQ via Flickr

I knew I had reached a point of no return in my stealthy maturation when I began consistently refusing every new offering from the youth fueled media and clothing industry. I cannot connect with teens of today. Lawful restrictions aside, I fail to establish any intimate understanding of teenagers or their interests, outlooks, styles, and actions. This landscape however was one in which film legend John Hughes could stroll through comfortably and confidently, despite his handicap of being an adult.

Though he had a limited directing career, every movie he crafted was a comedic and dramatic gem. Like early Spielberg, Hughes knew how to get an emotional depth from his actors that made them more than just characters. He embraced his audience and catered to them, feeding my generation bittersweet spoonfuls of our own angst and humor. As a writer I admire Hughes' ability to tell great stories, build memorable characters, and construct dialogue that can be both endearing and hilarious.

I don't know if current teens appreciate or are even aware of John Hughes and his cinematic canon. I don't need to list his accomplishments, as the people who know, know and the people who don't, don't matter. The mostly thirty-something fans who can join me in fond memory of Hughes feel his loss the most. We may not connect with the teens of today, but when viewing any Hughes masterpiece we can connect with the teens we used to be.

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S.S.D.D.

Image via Wikipedia

We are inarguably creatures of habit, both good and bad. Sometimes it's easier to maintain the bad ones, and it's definitely easier to start a habit than it is to quit one. The "good" habits are really just repetitive mundane actions, routine behavior that keeps us doing what is necessary to get through our daily lives. Straying from this routine, intentional or accidental, can disrupt the chain of daily events. A few days ago I altered my normal morning routine and forgot my lunch and my watch, leaving me starving and lost in time.

Sticking to the "norm" would appear to be what's best, but adhering to our benign habits is ultimately stealing away our lives. There is a part of our brains that allows us to function through everyday activities without requiring much focus, allowing us to keep our sanity. It's the reason you arrive at work and can't remember anything from the commute. We supress the commonplace acts in order to use our mind for more worthy situations. The problem is that most parts of life become mundane, repetitive, and commonplace, given a long enough span of time. When every day is the same we suppress more and more of our mortality. Then, once we actually stop to think, we discover that time is speeding up. We lose the substance and depth of our lives. We age faster. We remember less. All because there's nothing fresh, nothing new.

Job security is a retired concept and monetary stability is a fluctuating abstraction. There is nothing concrete in this world and what goes unchanged collects dust and is forgotten. People are convinced that healthy living assures a long life, but age is meaningless without significance, crux, or purport. Change is not only good, but it's necessary. Uproot yourself. Start over. Make life refreshing and new so the years, no matter how many or how few, will be abounding and complete. Break the habit. You risk forgetting lunch but it's better than forgetting your life.