It's Not a Resolution

It being the new year, I am seriously thinking about losing weight in the coming months.  Note please that this does not fall into the "resolution" category.  You see, if I don't classify it as a resolution, then when I devour an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's mid-February I won't feel like a total failure.  Yes, I know it's a matter of semantics but creative interpretation is a talent of which I can boast so indulge me, won't you?

As part of my research I surfed the various sites of the more popular weight loss programs.  They all feature a previously overweight celebrity spokesperson who successfully slimmed down counting points, eating prepared meals or dancing the flab away in front of millions of viewers each week.  They look fantastic so kudos to them all for sticking with it.

The thing I found disturbing, however, was an ad on at least one of the sites.  The ad was for anti-depressants.  Since Madison Avenue is known for target marketing, one can assume a high incidence of overweight people in need of a mood enhancing drug. 

Finally the stereotype of the jolly fat person is history.  Let's hear it for the real world!

Believe me, I'm not pointing an accusatory finger since I spent my first year in college popping diet pills.  I wasn't depressed.  Just obsessed with not gaining that "freshman fifteen".  Perhaps it came from shopping for clothes in the Chubby Kids Department -- we weren't big on euphemisms in the '50s -- or from one of the nuns sending a note home suggesting my mom put me on a diet.

Thankfully we're much more sensitive to weight issues now.  There are plus sizes for women and an entire shop for men who are big and tall.  We use words like "Reubenesque", "Queen Size" and "zaftig" -- Yiddish  for having a full, shapely figure. How can you not love that word?

For the longest time I called my extra poundage baby fat, but since it's now old enough to receive Medicare I think it's time to christen it something more accurate.

Nothing Common About a Cold

Whatever associations you have with winter -- snowmen, hot cocoa, cozy fireplace -- you can't finish your list without adding "the common cold".  Tis the season to be jolly but tis also the season to sneeze your blithering brains out and cough like you're rehearsing the final tragic consumption scene from "Camille".

 Tis also the time to dust off that rhetorical question "if they can put a man on the moon why can't they find a cure for the common cold?"

Having just emerged from the throes of the above mentioned affliction, I would like to know why indeed  can't  they discover such a cure?  Imagine the kudos that researcher would receive.  Nominations for a Nobel Prize, a Pulitzer, Queen of the May  -- whatever's available just to show our gratitude.  Anyone who's ever had a cold -- you know who you are -- would jump on the accolades bandwagon.  Statues erected. Holidays assigned. Elementary schools named.  Deli sandwiches added to menus. 

Exaggeration you say.  I think not.  Remember the last time you had a cold. Now tell me if you wouldn't have liquidated your entire portfolio of tech stocks in exchange for a pill guaranteed to unclog your sinuses.

A cold isn't life threatening and it's usually history in three to seven days, but those days are a glimpse into Dante's hellish circles.  I fought my recent bout with the Four Ts -- tissues, tea, toast and tomato soup.  Yes, I know chicken soup is the universal cure-all, but I happen to prefer tomato -- it's great for dunking the toast.

I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking.  Using hand sanitizer religiously. Taking my vitamins.  Waiting for this year's exotic flu strain to hit.

What?

Let me preface the forthcoming mini-rant by proudly admitting that I love language.  It's constantly changing and updating itself.  Old words fall out of use to make way for the new.  Slang rapidly saturates the vernacular. Unfortunately,  by the time we of the elder demographic incorporate it into our vocabulary the words are outdated --- thus generating an instant eye roll from young Twihards and those suffering from Biebermania.  I love the inflections, the intonation, the rhythm of English.  And certain words like pizazz and oomph just tickle my tongue. I'm an avid reader and often pause to admire a well-written sentence.  While I don't know the exact number, my vocabulary is probably higher than average.

Enough already.  You got it.  So......

Why then did I not understand one freakin' word the twenty-something techie said?  I might as well have been in a computer store in downtown Minsk.  I prayed for subtitles to suddenly appear on his chest. Of course they'd have been impossible to read what with my glazed over eyes.  This couldn't be my beloved English, although I did hear some recognizable words.  It's just that they were buried in sentences about gigabytes and HTMLs. 

There's never a glossary around when you need one.

Of course I assumed the pretense of comprehension, nodding my head and throwing in a few, what I assumed to be well-placed, "I sees".  To add to this charade, I jotted down a word or two so I could "follow-up".   

One more lie and I was sure my nose would jut out like Pinocchio.  I thanked the young man  -- just being polite, not sincere -- and left the store in need of immediate resuscitation. 

Forget 911.  Call the nearest coffee shop and order me a double grande dose of caffeine -- stat.