gator from the deli

"Lumber like the wind"-- Alex, Walking With Dinosaurs

People literately come up to me none of the time and ask me, “Considering your acute and chronic sedentary lifestyle, how do you maintain your weight such that when they ask you at the clinics if your weight is still the same you can say "yes"?”

And so I have never been compelled to answer but gladly would to emphasize my achievement:
“Consider, also, I am in a satiety battle with my steroids literally all the time-- give or take a few figurative times.”

Asked, compelled, or gladly, I will share anyway, of course.  Exercise.

As it turns out, I am somewhat aided by my disability, not as much as I am impeded, but not entirely without effect, lightening-the-load-wise.

My legs being of opposing minds and different skill sets with respect to forward movement and balance, there are certain counter-measures required for safety and desired for fruitful activity. Taking these precautions in many ways exerts more energy. There are no easy ambles. No distance-efficient strides. Each small step is a plant and push.

My right parietal lobe being no strict landlord and neither temporal lobes being opposed to subletting or partying, my spatial recognition seems to be getting crowded-out by the trans-lobal interlopers or gypsy-sacked and absconded with to foreign glials.

One the most discombobulating occurrences of these conjunction malfunctions is what I'll call the widening gyre of a routine function. For instance, doing dishes is kind of my jam. My chore tous les jours. [I will not say pardon my French, I will not say it in a pinch, I will not, I swill not, nor shall I flinch.] Exkyoose my Seuss.

Dish-doing is easy. Especially for a long time food service guy. Doing domestic dishes is almost laughable by comparison, it’s almost fun. When I plug in the usefulness factor, the onus is often a pleasure. If you know I’m stopping by, leave a little stack. I’ll stay for dinner, don’t even bother to protest. Even if we had casserole. No . . . especially if.

But in these multiform days, the cakewalk chore is becoming a cakewalk of the church fundraising sort. Because surely the cabinets are moving. The last time the plates were ninety degrees and three steps away relative to the dishwasher. And this time—eighty-five and four, just enough deviation to need to
calibrate.

They seem to be small degrees, and they are, but when confusion is combined with effort, there are circles to be done. Circles to be done on disparate legs. Therefore, circles made wider by a push exceeding the plant. The pivot cannot hold. The plates will fall.

For the time being, this pitiable orbit is only contained by the open door of the dishwasher and the stone counter beneath the plate cabinet; but as I carom off the sink then by incidence into the stove, this wobbly sphere could form a weebly cytoplasm, could paisley itself between the bar and the fridge, then slip all sci-fi into a glioblastomic infinity, through all which eternity I am damned to vaguely remember where the steak knives go.

At any rate, doing circles burns calories.

As usual, there are dietary concerns. And here, in lieu of putting this example into practice, I'll put it in the second person. You won't mind, will you? I won't.

A diet high in salty foods will reveal itself about the chin, cheeks, and jowls. Too conspicuous for your liking. Here are some options for reducing sodium intake: 1] Quit substituting  pork fatback for lean ground beef in your Double Cheese Chili Mac Hamburger Helper. 2] Eat a carrot (not an option). 3] Here’s my go-to alternative: grow a big fat beard on your big fat face. Low to no testosterone? Not a problem. Raid your church’s living nativity storage closet, shoo the goat, and borrow a magi beard or three; or your University of Liberal and Suspect Arts Theatre Department’s prop closet, shoo the coeds, and co-opt a Tevye; or your uncle’s Uncle Chik’s secret closet, shoo the goat, and nab his late wife’s bearded lady get-up.

If diet and exercise aren’t cutting it, try an aesthetic technique—a little trompe l’oeil (beg pardon). For example: since black is famously slimming and orange is the new black, go to a Bass Pros Shop, get you some gator from the deli, and bag yourself a hunter’s vest.