Literally

I can't break a sweat.  I literally don't have the strength.

Sorry for Sorry

I always apologize when I am unable to complete a task and must ask for help; when I make a mistake at a simple task, or do anything that causes that look of concern I’ve grown so accustomed to.

Whether it is a stranger or a loved one, I feel the need to apologize for my shortcomings. 

This disease, and I don’t call it that very often, to myself or in this forum, manifests itself in so many ways and changes so often, that I know much of what you see is new.  I know it is new to you because many times it is new to me, and I apologize for its presence. 

I am embarrassed by it and I apologize.  I am embarrassed because I don’t like who I’ve become.  I shouldn’t be embarrassed; I can’t control any of it. 

I don’t know what it is that makes me feel embarrassed; to feel the need to apologize.  Do I think it’s my fault?  No, I guess I don’t.  I don’t think it’s that simple; to assign fault. 

I do know that I draw special treatment; I need help.  I guess it is for that I apologize.

Food and Water

Best thing I can do to keep my energy level up throughout the day; drink lots of water.  

Second thing; eat.  

I would recommend both.

The Grocery Store

Almost everyone goes to the grocery store.  Depending on where and when I go, I encounter strikingly different varieties of people.  In the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, at the Shaw’s in Colchester, I encounter the following. 

There are the moms.  I don’t like the moms.  I find them cliquey and rude.  And if they have a child with them I immediately find them to be excellent mothers (aww) or terrible mothers (eww). 

I was walking down an aisle approaching a mom perusing the salad dressings, her cart blocking my path.  As I approached I slowed, looked towards her and voiced a mild-mannered “excuse me” accompanied by a smile.  She didn’t look in my direction.  Nor did she move her cart.  She did not acknowledge the fact that I had stopped in the aisle, politely awaiting her next move.  Instead she grabbed an item off the shelf, manhandled her cart into the right direction, turned and walked away.  Sorry to have been a bother, your majesty.

There are the people in sweatpants.  Most of this group is drastically overweight.  The grocery store is one of the few places where it seems acceptable to wear whatever the hell you want.  I could go into the different styles of sweatpants and what each might convey about their owners, but I won’t.

I saw a man today with grey sweatpants and a tank top.  It was in the upper 30’s outside.  His arms were a tannish red on the front, pasty white on the back like he had fallen asleep in a tanning booth.  He didn’t look like the tanning salon type.  He was obese and all of his exposed skin, arms, shoulders, neck, and the top of his back, were covered in long dark hair.  I shouldn’t say covered.  If it were covered I wouldn’t see his skin.  He was walking from register to register pushing his cart, on a mission for a cold soda.  Soon he found a cooler and opening the door, knocked several items from the display.  He did not pick them up.  

There are the old people.  There are two types of old people; the singles and the couples.  The couples move more slowly through the store, as even after decades of marriage, and years of weekly visits to the same grocery store, they still seem to discuss each item.  There is one positive, they are two people with one cart. 

The single old people are perhaps more interesting.  Mostly they are women, either because they do the shopping, or just as likely because their husbands have passed.  Despite their similarly extensive experience shopping for groceries, and the added simplicity that each is one person who likely knows what he or she wants, these people are almost as slow.

What makes them the less preferred of the old people sub-groups is that they each have a cart, and they tend to gossip in groups of two or three, clogging the two-lane aisles.  The next time I hear talk of a new recipe, or what’s on special, I might just stop and ask questions.  Of course if I hear that excited tone that could only mean a juicy piece of gossip I’ll have to respect their privacy.

I saw a woman in the soda aisle.  She was about 65.  She had a 12-pack (I think; is that how they sell soda) of Coca-Cola and a 12-pack of Coke Zero in her cart and she was staring blankly at the shelves in front of her.  As I came closer she made a selection, grabbing hold of a third 12-pack, this time Coke Zero Cherry (or Cherry Coke Zero, I’m not sure).  She smiled and maneuvered her cart out of the way as I passed.

There are the blue collar guys.  I’m not sure what the deal is with them.  They come in twos and threes and buy a lot of ground beef.  Maybe they’re firemen stocking up the firehouse fridge.  They are loud and obnoxious, but they seem like good guys, they shop quickly, and they leave me alone.  I also get an occasional laugh out of their boisterous, juvenile humor.  I like them.

There are the young couples.  They’re quiet and they don’t get in my way.  I like them as well.

That is all.

A Friend of a Friend

Recently a friend of a friend acted jealous that I can eat whatever I want and not gain weight.  She compared me with her boyfriend who also eats whatever he wants.  

I didn't want to make a scene so I kept my mouth shut.  Here's what I would have said:  Fuck you a friend of a friend.

Give me your advice, I’ll take it or leave it…

Everyone needs someone to look up to.  Someone who has been in their shoes, who can offer guidance and the perspective that age brings. 

A lot of times when I was young, I didn’t want to be told what to do; I couldn’t believe that someone had been there and might have any idea what it was like.  I was confident and I was stubborn.  I wanted to be in control; to find my own way.

But as I’ve gotten older I’ve become a better listener.  I ask questions with genuine interest and try to learn from their answers.   

But I still don’t want to be told what to do or how to feel, when I know with the utmost conviction that they don’t understand.  I want to be the one asking the questions.  I’ll choose whether I like the answer.

I am constantly being told what I need to be doing, how to eat, what should be important to me, and more and more what I should not be doing.  I don’t mean what to eat; I mean how to eat it.  I need to relearn how to eat.

I know that I’ve changed, that I’ve grown up a lot, but sometimes I still feel like that kid who won’t listen, who just wants control of his life. 

I didn’t have control then, and I don’t have it now.

Changing the Rules

We spend our whole lives learning how to live on this planet.  We learn the mental, the physical, and the spiritual skills we need to successfully move through life.   We expect that once we learn a new skill, we won’t forget; we’ll never need to learn again.  We’ll never lose the skills we have.  You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but then you shouldn’t have to.

But things change.  Without time and practice we lose some of the skills we spent so much effort gaining and refining.  Practice makes perfect, and neglect makes for a shitty performance.

And if we get out of touch, if we lose the skills we once had, we can revisit the past; nothing is lost forever. Think of all the amazing things we’ve accomplished; we could do them all again if we wanted to.

And there are some things we’ll never lose.  Things that we learned so young, and use so often; things we never consider.  The basic skills that are part of all of us.

But maybe we were wrong.  Maybe we’ll lose the things we took for granted.  Maybe that hope for the future, that confident voice in our heads saying “I’ve done it before, I can do it again”; maybe it’s a lie.  What if the past is the past, and you can’t go back to enjoy the things you remember so well? 

My life is constantly changing.  The way I interact with the world is changing.  I am giving more thought to basic actions, everyday functions, than I would’ve thought possible.   I am constantly evaluating myself and seeing, feeling, and hearing the changes I fear.  I change; I adapt all the time to make it work. 

It’s difficult to learn when the rules are always changing.