Lately I’ve developed a habit of not listening to the Universe when it’s talking to me. I’m determined to go along my merry way, ignoring the fact that Someone Out There is trying to tell me something. It seems I’m too busy listening to dumber, louder voices. Why else would I have bought that tub of Toll House cookie dough and eaten most of it as dough? What was I thinking?
RIP, George Carlin. You were a pioneer in both comedy and broadcasting, not to mention you sure tweaked those boys at the FCC. Not that I could ever compare my meager skills to yours, but we both had an affinity for words. Your talent with language is something to aspire to. I will always admire your clarity of vision, and I wish like crazy I could know what you’re thinking when the election comes to pass later this year. I’m pretty darn sure you wouldn’t miss it. Unless, of course, where you are, you already know the outcome. 🙂 Wherever you are, I bet there are people laughing their butts off and saying, “You know, he’s right.”
Between knowing that George died of heart failure and Tim Russert died of a heart attack, and I got on the scale this morning and was sorely disappointed in myself, I’ve decided I need to do something about this so I don’t die like they do. It’s a scary thought. I’m 41; George was 71, Tim was 58. As relatively young as I am, I’m not ready to go yet, but if I don’t take care of myself, starting NOW, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. I don’t even fool myself into thinking that talent-wise I’m on the same plain with either of those two, but still. These are people I never thought had a problem with their hearts, who died from virtually the same problem. Much as I admire them for their talents, I don’t want to end up the way they did. I hope this tidbit scares the bejeebies out of me.
Even before I’d heard this morning that George Carlin died, I picked up the latest South Beach Diet (Supercharged) book and started reading. The new version advocates short, intense workouts. If they only knew, I hate working out. I mean really hate it. The book asks for just 20 minutes a day of intense workout–and supposedly, the calorie-burning continues after the workout, thus kicking the metabolism into gear–but even that much makes me want to cry. I don’t know what it is; working out just isn’t fun. It’s 20 minutes away from writing (as if I don’t allow myself numerous distractions with that darn jigsaw puzzle website) or crocheting (I worked my hands off this weekend) or just goofing off. But goofing off is what got me to this size in the first place. I think I need the workout to remind me what kind of damage goofing off has done.
I’d post my weight as motivation, but that’s just too humiliating. Instead I’ll try to post my losses or gains. I’ll also post my workouts. Hold me responsible, people. I’m pretty sure both George and Tim, though they never knew me personally or I them, would be happy to know that their lives influenced others.