Exercising and Years.

There isn’t much going around right now other than politics and, although we have dabbed into that a couple of times in the past, that isn’t really what this blog is about.

Years ago, in another time and life, I’d get up in the morning ready to take on the world. Play tennis, do some gym work and tackle the day with a full-frontal attack.

Today, forget tennis… I still have a racket and a bag of tennis balls which are becoming rusty and somewhat deflated. The bag lies there in the dark closet in my office at home, until those times when one of our younger set members comes bearing his/her four-footed children. At that point, that bag of balls becomes handy and it gives up one or two of its well-guarded treasures so they can become the object of a chase and play game.

If I ever manage to create a 3 on 3 tennis game (me, being one of the third players, stationed semi-motionless at mid center court…) I may be able to play again. Otherwise… no comments, please.

Sometime during this past January, I went through my clothes and 75% of them simply did not fit. I did not feel well and looked worse for the wear. My waistline must have increased dramatically, for I remember one pair of jeans that showed at least a 2+ inch expanse between where it might close and where its buttons actually were.

But, hey… it’s January, very close to new year and still in time to make good on one of those (in)famous new year resolutions, right?  Except on this occasion, that pant waistline reality-check tells me that I better make it work.

What to do?

I like to eat. Not in excess quantities, but I am omnivorous and some of the fare, although home cooked, might tend to be not on the lean side of the scale. As mentioned before, I used to exercise regularly, so I was able to eat well. One routine stopped; the other did not.

So, I took stock of the situation…

There’s this incipient arthritis on the left shoulder… so my possible arm exercises are limited to waving hello and goodbye.

A long-standing ulcer (now finally healed) on the inside of my ankle had not allowed me to walk much, because the socks would rub on the sore skin and make it worse.

My hips were bothering me, and the left knee was letting me know those beautifully fluid motions that allowed me to, ages ago, gracefully slide on the tennis clay courts, were no longer fluid nor beautiful. In fact, sometimes it felt downright creaky.

Especially when carrying around an extra 30 pounds or so. But, hey… other than those previous details, all else was great and I was set to go. Right. Yeah.

I looked at the mirror and said to myself: -“Self… you are close to letting things get out of hand … on the verge of becoming old, bald and fat (at least, at 6’2’’ I can skip the “short” part)

- “What are you going to do about it?” Asked I to “self” …

- “How about looking through Amazon to see if I can find a newer model?” came back the immediate answer … You can imagine my state of mind …

I am not going to bother you with the intervening moans, groans, and ouches. Changed my eating habits, increased the green stuff and decreased the red stuff (including wine, a painful decision), stopped eating anything between meals, making the night meal a very light repast.

Started walking. In the beginning, my walking goal was 3 x week at 2,000 paces. Kind of Sunday walk-about paces. Pitiful. But true. Now I am at 6000 paces x 5 times per week. Brisk paces, just short of “double-time” (for you, Army buffs).

I feel a lot better; my hips don’t bother me, my knee stopped creaking and I have actually lost some 28 pounds. The tennis part is still in the future... and here is where I say … - “If I can do it and you need to, you can do it too …” It’s true.

And those bloody jeans are on me right now, as I write this.

And answering your silly question (I can hear you!) … Yes, they are properly buttoned.

Be Well … Be Back!!!

Final Notes:

·       Pray for those who are fighting an illness which may take them away from their loved ones… Every request is heard, and counts!!   

·       Any comments please send to rjalcazar@gmail.com

My Generation Is Blind to the Prosperity Around Us.

A friend sent this piece to me and, after reading it, I can’t truly add or take away any of what is presented. I can only say I wish I had written it but then, its impact would not be what it is. It was penned by a 26-year-old, a so called “millennial", who is coming to understand the danger of populism. I do not know his name; I wish I did to give him/her proper credit. It can only be surmised from reading that he, or she, is a Florida resident. Would that this and other notes like it could find their way to the eyes and minds of many young people who, for the sake of going “against the establishment”, are willing to make important decisions without the benefit of different, or differing, viewpoints.

I understand and know the dangers of wielding blind opinions; I was there once. 

A long while ago, it seems.

It reads:

“I’m sitting in a small coffee shop near Nokomis (FL) trying to think of what to write about. I scroll through my newsfeed on my phone looking at the latest headlines of Democratic candidates calling for policies to “fix” the so-called injustices of capitalism. I put my phone down and continue to look around. I see people talking freely, working on their MacBook’s, ordering food they get in an instant, seeing cars go by outside, and it dawned on me. 

We live in the most privileged time in the most prosperous nation and we’ve become completely blind to it. Vehicles, food, technology, freedom to associate with whom we choose. These things are so ingrained in our American way of life we don’t give them a second thought. We are so well off here in the United States that our poverty line begins 31 times above the global average. Thirty. One. Times. Virtually no one in the United States is considered poor by global standards. Yet, in a time where we can order a product off Amazon with one click and have it at our doorstep the next day, we are unappreciative, unsatisfied, and ungrateful.

Our unappreciation is evident as the popularity of socialist policies among my generation continues to grow. Democratic Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez recently said to Newsweek talking about the millennial generation, “An entire generation, which is now becoming one of the largest electorates in America, came of age and never saw American prosperity.” Never saw American prosperity! Let that sink in. 

When I first read that statement, I thought to myself, that was quite literally the most entitled and factually illiterate thing I’ve ever heard in my 26 years on this earth. Many young people agree with her, which is entirely misguided. My generation is being indoctrinated by a mainstream narrative to actually believe we have never seen prosperity. I know this first-hand, I went to college, let’s just say I didn’t have the popular opinion, but I digress.

Why then, with all of the overwhelming evidence around us, evidence I can even see sitting at a coffee shop, do we not view this as prosperity? We have people who are dying to get into our country. People around the world are destitute and truly impoverished.

Yet, we have a young generation convinced they’ve never seen prosperity, and as a result, electing politicians dead set on taking steps towards abolishing capitalism. Why?

The answer is this, my generation has only seen prosperity. We have no contrast. We didn’t live in the great depression, or live through two world wars, the Korean War, The Vietnam War or see the rise and fall of socialism and communism. We don’t know what it’s like to live without the internet, without cars, without smartphones. We don’t have a lack of prosperity problem. We have an entitlement problem, an ungratefulness problem, and it’s spreading like a plague."

Thank you for sharing this note Douglas.

I can only push it forward.

Be well; Be back!

Lost in The Folds of Time

There are moments when I truly feel that I am lost in the folds of time. Functioning within a slow-motion, somewhat off-color and loosely patched-together film. Yet, fascinating and sometimes difficult to watch because I am the primary player and I guess the unwitting or, perhaps, very willing scriptwriter and director.

Looking through a discolored window into a sometimes foggy garden; a garden of life, my life. Moments, places, episodes, conversations, silences… There are many instances of this long passage included in this running blog (lately, more of a “crawling” blog) but when I look at the total picture, there is the realization that much has been relegated to forgetfulness. Because time deletes some of these memories. Perhaps because the mind will do the same, pushed by an encroaching inability to remember some of those details. I think this last may be an expression of subliminal and deliberate self-defense. Survival instincts.

Early summer, many years ago… perhaps another life. My son, then 18 years old or so, in the midst of his confusion and inner turmoil, ran away from home. In the time I had prior to leaving on an extended business trip (another one of those) the communication with his mother (by then my ex) and with several search and poster agencies became, to paraphrase a(n) (in)famous term, “fast and furious”.  

By the time I left, we still had not heard from him, nor had any news from any of the agencies. His mother called me regularly to request funds to continue the search; I called her to learn if anything had happened. After a strange period of silence (no funds requests, no news, no calls) I decided to call to find out if anything had been heard. This time, probably by punching the wrong button, I called her home number rather than her cell phone as had been her request.

The phone rang for a few times and when I was ready to hang up on my end, it was picked up at the other end. No one spoke and I called in “hello” … a tentative “hi” came back over the lines. To my great and happy surprise, it was my son, who’d found his way back and had been at his mom’s for almost a week already.

We talked for a while, he never really touching on where he had been and what had happened. The where we later learned had been Chicago; the what, he took to his grave. I was just happy to hear his voice and to know he was alive and back home, although the “and well” part remained to be seen.

After I hung up, I had a deep sense of relief about knowing he was back. However, somewhere else a feeling of anger began to roil up deep inside.

He had been back for almost a week! His mother had not told me. She had been quick to call for money and to make sure to throw guilt my way about his leaving. Trust me, I had enough guilt to throw around; there is always the questioning and the inner berating.

Yet, when he came back, she had not said anything. If I had not called the home number that day by mistake, I don’t know how much longer she would have kept it from me.

Peevish? … Petty? … Revenge for a failed marriage?

Any and all of the above; none of the above. Her excuse when I called her on this was that she had misplaced the overseas number. Difficult for this to happen unless her phone was lost. She had the number on speed dial. It took some time and effort to force that anger to disappear or, at least, to be relegated to the back of the cage.

A moment from the past; a scene from that foggy garden of life memories. Almost lost in the folds of time… I wonder how many more of these exist.

I am sure many.

Be Well … Be Back!!!

Final Notes:

·       Pray for those who are fighting an illness which may take them away from their loved ones… Every request is heard, and counts!!   

·       Any comments please send to rjalcazar@gmail.com