| No. 19: |
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Buff-Daddy Bookseller |
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Editor's
note:
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It's true. The shocking physical transformation is only the half of it. My life isn't exactly going as planned. At this point I was supposed to be stuffed in a shirt harassing a sycophantic secretary, or delighting hoards of reverent fans with my savoir-faire and down-to-earth manner. Not some flaccid fish in a Portland puddle. And I think it's starting to get to me. Lately I've been listless and moody. Last week I sat through an entire episode of Suddenly Susan. I (!) wasn't appalled enough by Banal Brooke to bother changing the channel (!). I'm not myself. Even my mind — as you know, normally a steel trap — has begun to falter. Last month, I lost my car keys, my wallet, and, I'm beginning to think, my sanity. Where's the calm, cool, slim, trim, up-and-comer I used to know? I've got to get it together. It's not too late. January isn't over yet. There's still time to make some resolutions. And it's pretty clear where I need to start. RESOLUTION NO. 1: BEEF UP Just as soon as I've finished the four pounds of fudge granny sent for Christmas (it would be ungrateful not to enjoy it; it was a gift!), I'm going on a diet. And I won't stop until I need a belt for my jockeys and people start calling me Carlisle Flockhart. But which one? Suzanne Somers "got skinny on fat." That sounds good, but...well...I've seen Three's Company. That diet where you eat all the steak and cheese you want sounds like heaven...until you find out that you can't have even a single scoop of mashed potatoes or slice of Wonder Bread on the side. A friend of mine has a sister who lost her hippo-hips eating only peanut butter. But what am I, twelve? Maybe I'm approaching my problem from the wrong direction. Perhaps, instead of putting a straightjacket on my intake, I should simply increase my output. I've never been much for physical exertion, but I understand "working out" is all the rage. If I just start to exercise, then I'll be free to eat whatever I want. I'll hire a personal trainer from Brazil named Raoul, or maybe a Hans from Munich. He'll take me under his firm, authoritarian wing and pummel me into shape. It will be like boot camp, without the bad hair. A four-mile run at dawn before a scientifically calibrated regimen of calisthenics, weight lifting, and rope climbing (or something). Then a breakfast of oatmeal, skim milk, prunes, and a vast array of suppository-sized supplements. Or, maybe I'll subsist on nothing but powershakes. Then off to work, where my coworkers will be spellbound as they watch my transformation from flabby wimp to buff-daddy bookseller in only a few short weeks. Now, I know what you're thinking. "It's a chimera, Carlisle. A mirage. Physical beauty doesn't ensure happiness." Duh! I wasn't born yesterday. I know what happened to Marilyn in the end. I know all about poor Tom Cruise's love problems (and all he has to go through to keep them out of the papers). No. Attaining physical perfection will be just the first step toward creating the perfect life, the life I was meant to live. My new body won't mean squat if it's achieved at the expense of my mind. So... RESOLUTION NO. 2: IMPROVE MY MIND Now there's no sense denying it. I'm doing pretty well in this area already. But there's always room for improvement. Doesn't Tiger Woods keep working on his golf game? George Bush still worries about his ratings. And Jerry Springer continues to find ways to sink even lower. Just so, I can do even more to increase my knowledge and develop my powers of rational thought. Yes, I'm well read, but there are still large gaps in my education. I've never read the unexpurgated Norse sagas. I've only read the Russians in translation. The last issue of The New Yorker is sitting on the coffee table half read. And I still haven't even cracked the cover of that biography of Jacqueline Susann. I guess I've just been plain lazy. Well that's going to stop. From now on, I'm going to seize every opportunity that presents itself to enrich my mind. After today, I won't be watching Regis during breakfast. I'll be reading Kierkegaard. On the bus to work, I used to catnap. Now I'll be poring over the latest history of the Crimean War. And here on out, lunch will be a brown bag in the park with Anna Karenina or David Copperfield. I'll follow my passion for knowledge wherever it takes me: Rome, Chichén Itzá, Peyton Place...I'll explore the history of ideas, the latest theories of physics and mathematics, the origins of life, and the semiotics of the Teletubbies. Now wait a minute. I shouldn't get too carried away. I can't spend all my time pumping iron and reading. After all, it's just about tax time, and before I start spending my evenings with Mrs. Karenina, I've still got to fix that leaky faucet. Therefore... RESOLUTION NO. 3: FIX EVERYTHING This year, I'm not going to let the house deteriorate any further. After I've fixed the faucet, I'll take care of that fence, and the furnace, and those storm windows, and that broken bedstead. If my bicycle were in working order, I'm sure I'd start to ride it to work as I'd always planned. And it's time to admit that the paint I chose for the bedroom was a terrible mistake. Sailor's Sunrise sounded so peaceful. But let's be honest. It's pink. I feel like I'm sleeping in a bottle of Pepto Bismol. It's time to repaint. Unfortunately, all this costs money. And I can't even afford a shot of hazelnut syrup in my morning double tall skinny latté. I need to take charge of my finances. It's painful to contemplate, but I need a budget. I'll allow myself a few small pleasures — a CD here, a new appliance there — but otherwise Mussolini will control the purse strings. With discipline my financial shortfall will become a windfall. I'll bet within six months I can pay for all my home improvements and have enough saved to start investing in Microsoft, or GE, or one of those Texas energy conglomerates. Oh, it's going to be great. This is the year I'm going to become Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Stephen Hawking, Tim Allen, and Suze Orman all rolled into one. Admittedly, it's a tall order. I'll be juggling more than a few balls. Jeez. Can I really handle all this? Of course I can. I think. Maybe I should get a little help keeping it all together. I know just what I need: a new organizer. RESOLUTION NO. 4: GET ORGANIZED I'm going to go out tomorrow — well, I'm no zealot. I suppose next week will do — and buy the biggest organizer on the market. No sense skimping. My new organizer will be worth its weight in gold. And it will weigh a lot. I'll choose one called The Effective Executive (or something), one so substantial, it will come with a shoulder strap. The Effective Executive will be a complete life's planner. It will not only keep track of my appointments, tasks, and contacts in neat little rows, it will determine my goals, budget my time, and marshal my unruly mind. For every moment of every day, I'll know just what to do, for how long, and why. No more downing brewskies when I could be typing up (and spell-checking) my notes on the uses of beer in Ancient Egypt. And I'll never miss another birthday or anniversary. The Effective Executive won't let me. But it's the little details that will really set the Ef. Ex. apart. It will have zippered pockets for pens and pencils, a slot specially designed for business cards and one for floppy disks, a built-in calculator, and a one-by-three inch slot for my cell phone (as soon as Mr. Mussolini allows me to buy one). My new planner will also feature soothing reproductions of Nature and Art and Celebrity. It will have inspirational quotes by Gandhi and Maya Angelou in the margins. And each day will feature a visualization from Shakti Gawain or a helping of chicken soup from Jack Canfield. And whenever you check a task completed, the Ef. Ex. will play one of the many tune's stored in its tiny memory chip: Beethoven's Ninth, that song from Man of La Mancha, Vogue by Madonna, etc. I can practically hear the Effective Executive now, playing it's little tune in celebration of my success:
Except my star won't be unreachable. I'm going to be all that I can be (without the bad haircut). It's going to be great. I don't think I'll be crying again any time soon. I'll be too busy doing it my way. I feel energized. Ready. And, as the saying goes, there's no time like the present. Where shall I start? I know. Where's that fudge. |
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h. My. God. I generally try to avoid mirrors — as they say, no
news is good news — but I just broke down and took a peek.
What a shock. I must have gained three or four pounds over the
holidays. Maybe five. I'm obese. I look like a manatee on an all
mayonnaise diet. And then, get this, when I realized that the
pudding pop staring at me from out of the glass was Me, I started
to cry. I don't emote! What is happening to me?
