Category: Funny Business

Today, the scale reads 161.6 pounds.

Last week, the scale read 161.6 pounds.

Late last month, the scale read 161.6 pounds.

Is that good?

Yeah, sorta.

My original goal was 170, which I hit with no problem. Then I readjusted it to 165, which took a little work, but wasn’t that big a challenge.

Finally, I decided I wanted to tip the scales at 160, because with my height (5-9) and build (like a chimpanzee), 160 is considered my ideal weight.

First, however, I owe you a backstory.

Last summer – after spending several years as a healthy eater and averaging 163 pounds – I fell in with the wrong crowd and by “wrong crowd” I mean delicious food.

I certainly wasn’t going hungry before then, and I enjoyed what I ate for the most part.

I stayed away from candy, cakes, pies and ice cream, and ate quite a bit of fruit. Thing is, after you steer clear of “evil” food for a while, you forget about it.

But one day – I don’t really recall when – I was in a bakery-heavy grocery store when I heard a box of lemon squares call out to me.

Not wanting to be rude, I walked toward them to find out what they wanted and, it turns out, they wanted me to eat ‘em.

So I did.

I figured having a tasty dessert once in a while wouldn’t do any harm and, lord, these things are good. I’m not sure what’s in them, but they weigh about 75 pounds apiece and are covered in confectioners sugar.

After eating one you’re compelled to eat another (they come four to a box) and by the time you finish you look like Tony Montana in “Scarface” – right after he’s snorted the pile of coke off his desk.

I haven’t checked, but I’m guessing a four pack of lemon squares is about, oh, 6,000 calories.

But damn, they’re good.

Yet if that had been the end of it, I would’ve been OK. I could’ve looked at it like someone who went on a weekend bender but then straightened out after a couple days of detox.

But I was kidding myself because lemon squares are a gateway dessert and the gates flew wide-ass open.

A day later I was back at another grocery store, this time coveting strawberry cake with cream cheese icing.

Placed in an environmentally unfriendly plastic container, its label clearly stated that this one hunk of cake was 930 calories.

You know how long it took me to eat it?

Three minutes. I know because I was looking at the clock in my car while I ate it.

Chewing started at 11:47 a.m., chewing ended at 11:50 a.m.

And soon, the urge to eat like I was Scooby Doo and Shaggy overtook me.

I started buying two boxes of lemon squares and multiple pieces of strawberry cake.

Pop-Tarts returned to the rotation, and I’m talking the cherry frosted kind.

Did you know you can put a big ol’ slab of butter on a Pop-Tart and heat it in the oven?

You can, and I did.

But it wasn’t just sweets. My insatiable desire for Satan’s Snacks extended to big bags of mixed nuts and giant wedges of cheese – the large kind used to lure wharf rats.

A body built to carry 165 pounds was now hauling close to 190, and I began to look like a pregnant, mutant chimp.

We come in all different shapes and sizes, and some people look good with extra weight, but I’m not one of those people.

The lowest point came when I was lounging on the futon eating Lay’s potato chips and I could see my blurred reflection in the TV screen.

Had Princess Leia been at my feet, I would’ve sworn I was staring at Jabba The Hutt.

So Scotty The Hutt decided he had to get back in shape.

My wife got a FitBit for me so I could track calories and chart exercise, and that set the wheels in motion.

I went cold turkey on the lemon squares and strawberry cake.

I made it my mission to run, walk or crawl at least five miles every day.

And the grand prize at the end was hitting 160.

As I said, most of the pounds came off rather quickly and that inspired me to keep chasing my ultimate goal. Once I reached 165, my wife told me I should quit because I was looking too thin.

But we Adamsons aren’t quitters (unless we’re scared, hurt, under the weather, or know we’re beat,), so I was bound and determined to reach 160.0 so I could put the FitBit on maintenance mode and dance in the end zone.

But …

I can’t lose these last 1.6 pounds. Each day I eat less than the amount of calories I’m allowed, yet the scale won’t go any lower.

Each Friday I’m confident I’ve finally hit my goal, but all I can get is close – tantalizingly close.

Still, I continue to keep my eyes on the prize, and know in my heart that one day I’ll reach the magic number and it’ll be cause for a major celebration.

I probably shouldn’t celebrate with lemon squares, though.

Then again, 170 was my original goal, so ….

 

 

You know how you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you hit your knee on the corner of the bed?

It hurts.

Often, you’ll make a groaning noise moments after impact.

You might even scream, “Shit!”

Then your darling person will wake up and yell, “What!”

“I hit my damn knee on the damn bed,” you’ll say. And you’ll likely mutter “Shit!” again because it just seems … right.

I think we’ve all done it, or at least done something similar. But while the pain can be sharp, it’s usually fleeting, so instead of rolling up in a ball and crying, you cowboy up, go pee, and then go back to bed.

This is how normal people react; they don’t get mad at the bed.

The bed meant no harm.

Sadly, I don’t think I’m normal.

Why?

Because there is one particular inanimate object in my home – a portable fan – that makes me angry because it does mean harm, and I’m holding a grudge against the fan itself.

I hate that little bastard … I hate it with every fiber of my being. I want to hurt it and destroy everything it loves.

Here’s how it started:

We have an old house with a small downstairs bathroom.

It has no ventilation, so when you take a hot shower everything steams up and the walls sweat and you open yourself up to mold and mildew. However, if you place a fan by the door and aim it at the shower, it acts as a faux ventilation system.

And for that purpose, it works well. The trick, of course, is to move it out of the way when you’re done.

I tend to forget to do this, and it absolutely refuses to leave on its own accord.

So over the course of a week, I’m going to crash into this fan at least five times.

And that means at least five times I’m going to suffer various injuries and scream “Shit!” at the top of my lungs.

It’s really pissing me off.

I’ll walk by and kick it and stumble – once I even hit my head on the door after losing my balance completely – and it just looks at me.

And I know it’s laughing.

I can’t hear it cackle over the whir of its noisy blades … but I believe it to be true.

And every time there’s a collision, I grow angrier with it.

Just a few days ago, I rounded the corner in broad daylight and kicked it. I swear I had moved it out of the way, but there it was back in position … and in this instance, I was only wearing socks so there was actual wailing and gnashing of teeth due to the excruciating pain.

I was so mad I picked it up, shook it and screamed at it.

I felt kind of bad because it happened right in front of my bedroom fan, which has always been really sweet and probably didn’t need to hear what I was screaming.

On the other hand, making an example of the evil bathroom fan might serve as an object lesson in case the good fan ever decides to go rogue.

Now, do I have some responsibility here?

Maybe.

If I moved it out of the way after showering, I wouldn’t run into it.

But I can’t be expected to remember everything.

With two cats and two dogs – and one of the dogs being a hyperactive, vocal, criminally insane young Chihuahua – I tend to get distracted. And it would be nice if the fan showed some initiative from time to time and moved itself.

Further proof that the fan is out to get me is that Mary never has this problem with it.

It’s like the car “Christine” or that “Talky Tina” doll from “The Twilight Zone.” Much like those Mephistophelean objects, perhaps this fan has made me the target if its evil intent.

So the battle will rage on.

I’ll shower in the morning, step around it when I’m done, and hopefully remember to put it away.

But it’ll find its way back, and we’ll go round and round again.

Who knows?

Maybe one day I might accidentally leave it on the side of the road during trash pickup day.

That day might even come next week for that little prick fan.

Besides, how bad can mold and mildew be?

My dentist and his staff are great people. They’re highly skilled, have a great drill side manner, and do everything in their power to make my visit as pleasant as possible.

Still, “going to the dentist” is a terrifying experience for me.

Here’s why.

I’ve had dental issues ever since I was a little kid.  Without dentists, orthodontists, periodontists and other kinds of “dontists,” I would either be walking around with hillbilly teeth or no teeth at all.

As a child I had this one tooth that was basically a fang, and if a kind dentist – I think his name was Van Helsing – had not removed it and done some sort of dental voodoo, I would currently look like half a vampire.

All that being said, I was quite the little trooper up until my mid-teens. Thanks to nitrous oxide (laughing gas), I would get good and relaxed before any dental work was done, and the procedures were mostly run of the mill.

I might leave with a numb lip and sore gums, but it was no biggie.

Then came 1978.

For reasons I can’t fully recall – or perhaps simply don’t wish to – I found myself at a dentist who did not provide laughing gas.

Strike one.

I needed a filling, so he had to give me a shot of Novocain in the upper left side of my mouth. But early on in the drilling, I started experiencing some pretty intense pain because the shot didn’t completely deaden the area.

Strike two.

After a couple more shots kinda/sorta did the trick, he again started the process of drilling, but part of the tooth shattered. I’m not sure what happened after that, but I finally had a full understanding of how Dustin Hoffman felt in “Marathon Man.”

Any time I hear the phrase, “Is it safe?” I pee a little.

Strike three.

Because of my fear, I spent years completely avoiding the dentist, and that dental neglect naturally led to a lot of problems as an adult. Only until I had a mind-numbingly painful abscess did it reach the point where I looked like that mountain man in “Deliverance” and decided I had to get back in the chair.

Even then, I wanted assurances.

Do they provide nitrous? And if so, will there be plenty on hand when I arrive? And if so, is there a chance they can go ahead and dose me while I’m in the waiting room?

If not, do I qualify for medical marijuana? And if that isn’t an option, would it be cool to spark up a joint?

(The answer, by the way, was no on all counts).

The fear was irrational, but very real. And I was not ashamed to admit that having dental work done was one of the very last things I wanted to endure.

So when I finally relented and returned to the dentist’s office for some major work, I asked that they crank up the nitrous to 11. I sniffed as hard as I could because – and I’m being completely honest here – I wanted my ass high before anyone came at my mouth with a needle.

Despite the gas I still remember gripping the armrests as hard as I could and contorting my legs in such a way that I looked like I was either trying to score a goal via a bicycle kick, or acting out a scene from “Flashdance.”

But you know what?

I came through it fine.

I didn’t enjoy it because only a masochist would, but the doc and his team held my hand (figuratively) throughout the ordeal and did all they could to ease my angst.

And since that time – which was about 10 years ago – I’ve had everything from a root canal to a crown replacement, and every time they make a point to comment on what a big, brave boy I am.

So, no, I’ll never look forward to trips to the dentist, but I at least know the folks there are going to do a great job. And I’m very grateful to them.

They still won’t give me nitrous when they clean my teeth, though.

That kinda pisses me off.