It is early in the morning but I am awake and exercising my lean digits across my well-worn keyboard. I've already punished the rest of my body on that damned elliptical and decided it only fair to exercise them as well.
It is necessary to make mention of the lean composition of my fingers because they are the only part of my entire body that totally conform to that descriptor, and I need to remind myself of that visually redemptive fact sometimes. Particularly now that the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated has somehow found its way back as a fixture among the other, less threatening periodicals in the master bathroom.
Until such time as it becomes passe and I notice that Consumer Reports or Men's Health have worked their way once again to the fore of the magazine bin on the floor, I am doomed to absorb the stark contrast between the reflection of myself in the mirror and whatever nubile goddess (who, as every year, has been ordered to hide her breasts and hold her swim top) graces the cover and is reflected behind me like some petty, vindictive, under-clad angel of Christmas' Past.
Not that I was ever a contender for the job even in my youth, but at least age gave me a fighting chance and the laws of gravity were squarely in my corner mopping my brow and giving me that rousing shove to continually get back in the ring. It is obvious that at some point the bell rang indicating the match had ended, but I was probably too busy packing lunches for my kids or attending little league games or scrubbing toilets to notice.
However, based on the battered visual I am left with, it would appear it was a knockout and not one in my favor. Now I'm left with a body that has taken one too many c-sections to the groin, sleepless nights that have registered as dark half-moons under my eyes and days, months and years of female stoicism carved like a fine-lined, topographic map of domestic and personal upheavals and restorations on my baleful scowl.
And as I awkwardly maneuver my naked body to the shower while my glossy-papered nemesis gloats in all her tabloid glory from her corner of the lavatory ring, I am thinking that even Rocky Balboa must look better today than I do.
I know that when a door closes, a window supposedly opens, and in theory that is true. I've discovered such windows flying open right and left as I've watched the corresponding slamming of both the doors of options as well as those of action; which leaves me wondering whether God has perhaps some obsession with irony.
Why would it be that just as our eyes have adjusted to the consequential glare of the benefits in living by the Golden Rule and the brilliant logic behind the principles of letting things be and rising above pettiness and the advantage of focusing your energies on giving more than we receive, would He also arrange the commensurate deterioration of our bodies?
Just when we reach the age and stage where we can finally say we've got so much to offer, we are also at the age and stage where nobody wants it.
The social and cultural preoccupation is decidedly fixed upon the character and form of the Sports Illustrated swim suit models and whether or not they can actually put those swimsuit tops on themselves or is the complexity such that they require assistance. What subtle treasures of coherent thought even these beauties may harbor between their perfect ears is of little or no consequence and less so from anyone grazing the edges of gravity's tenacious grasp.
I'm not entirely sure why this is the imaginary road my brain ambled down today. I don't really care about the swimsuit models and am fairly well tenured in the art of acceptance; at least enough not to let myself become seriously disturbed by anything radically defined by the laws of physics and biology.
I suppose that, in part, it is because I don't want to explore anymore dark corners for a while and felt that a little bit of levity was necessary. After the last few entries this blog was beginning to resemble a really bad country western song where its always raining, you're misunderstood and dang lonely, the kid's in jail, the dog dies and your man's done run off with the check-out gal from The Piggly Wiggly. (I made that last one up. We don't have a Piggly Wiggly here.)
Not only do I want to avoid sounding as though I can only see through a glass darkly, but I would rather be roped to a honey tree in a forest of Black Bears than believe my words bring to mind the refrain of some song belted out at The Grand Ole Opry. My sincerest apologies to any and all country music aficionados out there. For whatever reason, it just ain't my thing.
Actually, I'm still looking for my thing, and given the image reflected in my mirror this morning, I'd better get my ass in gear. Time is definitely flagging me with a perceivable deadline, which is a little annoying considering the fact that I feel I've only just gotten started.
I wonder how biblical greats like Noah and Methuselah so greatly exceeded what has now become our rather short expiration date? One thing is certain: they managed to live hundreds of years a piece without the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
In light of our present state of cultural and spiritual deprivation globally, we might want to consider the benefits from doing without it as well. Loin cloths might even become a fashion mainstay once more....
God forbid!
It is necessary to make mention of the lean composition of my fingers because they are the only part of my entire body that totally conform to that descriptor, and I need to remind myself of that visually redemptive fact sometimes. Particularly now that the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated has somehow found its way back as a fixture among the other, less threatening periodicals in the master bathroom.Until such time as it becomes passe and I notice that Consumer Reports or Men's Health have worked their way once again to the fore of the magazine bin on the floor, I am doomed to absorb the stark contrast between the reflection of myself in the mirror and whatever nubile goddess (who, as every year, has been ordered to hide her breasts and hold her swim top) graces the cover and is reflected behind me like some petty, vindictive, under-clad angel of Christmas' Past.
Not that I was ever a contender for the job even in my youth, but at least age gave me a fighting chance and the laws of gravity were squarely in my corner mopping my brow and giving me that rousing shove to continually get back in the ring. It is obvious that at some point the bell rang indicating the match had ended, but I was probably too busy packing lunches for my kids or attending little league games or scrubbing toilets to notice.
However, based on the battered visual I am left with, it would appear it was a knockout and not one in my favor. Now I'm left with a body that has taken one too many c-sections to the groin, sleepless nights that have registered as dark half-moons under my eyes and days, months and years of female stoicism carved like a fine-lined, topographic map of domestic and personal upheavals and restorations on my baleful scowl.
And as I awkwardly maneuver my naked body to the shower while my glossy-papered nemesis gloats in all her tabloid glory from her corner of the lavatory ring, I am thinking that even Rocky Balboa must look better today than I do.
I know that when a door closes, a window supposedly opens, and in theory that is true. I've discovered such windows flying open right and left as I've watched the corresponding slamming of both the doors of options as well as those of action; which leaves me wondering whether God has perhaps some obsession with irony.
Why would it be that just as our eyes have adjusted to the consequential glare of the benefits in living by the Golden Rule and the brilliant logic behind the principles of letting things be and rising above pettiness and the advantage of focusing your energies on giving more than we receive, would He also arrange the commensurate deterioration of our bodies?
Just when we reach the age and stage where we can finally say we've got so much to offer, we are also at the age and stage where nobody wants it.
The social and cultural preoccupation is decidedly fixed upon the character and form of the Sports Illustrated swim suit models and whether or not they can actually put those swimsuit tops on themselves or is the complexity such that they require assistance. What subtle treasures of coherent thought even these beauties may harbor between their perfect ears is of little or no consequence and less so from anyone grazing the edges of gravity's tenacious grasp.
I'm not entirely sure why this is the imaginary road my brain ambled down today. I don't really care about the swimsuit models and am fairly well tenured in the art of acceptance; at least enough not to let myself become seriously disturbed by anything radically defined by the laws of physics and biology.
I suppose that, in part, it is because I don't want to explore anymore dark corners for a while and felt that a little bit of levity was necessary. After the last few entries this blog was beginning to resemble a really bad country western song where its always raining, you're misunderstood and dang lonely, the kid's in jail, the dog dies and your man's done run off with the check-out gal from The Piggly Wiggly. (I made that last one up. We don't have a Piggly Wiggly here.)
Not only do I want to avoid sounding as though I can only see through a glass darkly, but I would rather be roped to a honey tree in a forest of Black Bears than believe my words bring to mind the refrain of some song belted out at The Grand Ole Opry. My sincerest apologies to any and all country music aficionados out there. For whatever reason, it just ain't my thing.
Actually, I'm still looking for my thing, and given the image reflected in my mirror this morning, I'd better get my ass in gear. Time is definitely flagging me with a perceivable deadline, which is a little annoying considering the fact that I feel I've only just gotten started.
I wonder how biblical greats like Noah and Methuselah so greatly exceeded what has now become our rather short expiration date? One thing is certain: they managed to live hundreds of years a piece without the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
In light of our present state of cultural and spiritual deprivation globally, we might want to consider the benefits from doing without it as well. Loin cloths might even become a fashion mainstay once more....
God forbid!
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