Let Us All Be Enabled and Entitled

                I go to the YMCA (herein “the Y”) quite regularly to get a quick work-out in; about five to six days per week.  Now I don’t go this often because I’m some tremendous athlete or big time muscled mass of protein.  I generally go because it’s convenient, happens to be right down the street from my home, and to help keep a formerly dislocated shoulder and surgically repaired knee (arthroscopy) strengthened. The truth is, I do a quick 30-minute run around the neighborhood, and end up at the Y to stretch and do a quickie-5-minute workout.  However, I inevitably end up spending more than the 15-minutes or so that it would actually take to stretch and do my quick exercises.  Why?  Well, it’s to socialize, of course!  I pay big bucks monthly to belong to this Y in order to chat with my primary social circle, the Ladies Club.

                I call my circle of friends the Ladies Club because the three closest friends of mine there are ladies.  Easy enough, right?  Also, the time of day determines this as well.  I generally arrive at the gym anywhere between 7:30am and 8:30am.  Most people are headed into work by this time and there are specific types of people who are at the gym at this time of day: the retired and/or elderly, those with flexible work schedules, and those who do not work or work part-time.   Generally speaking, there are more women there at this hour than men.  (The meat-heads plug up the free-weights in the early evenings, being obnoxiously loud, moaning and groaning like they’re gonna throw-up.  I hate to imagine what they sound like when they have an orgasm…  “Uhhh-waaahhhhhh-rrrr!!!”  Maybe they’re shitting themselves, too.  If so, they deserve it because they’re obnoxious as hell.)

                One morning last week, I did my run and had to rush to the bathroom.  You know, I had some business to take care of after my run, which can double as an unexpectedly effective laxative.  (And it’s completely natural!)  Okay.  Gross.  You didn’t want to know that, I’m sure, but if ever you’re in need of regularity – which by the way, television commercials freely talk about this as well as other bodily functions without so much as an apology nor eliciting from its audience the slightest response to the grotesque – you should take up running or some physical activity that pushes your cardiovascular fitness.  Constipated?  No such thing!

                I went to the sink to wash my hands (I role-model proper hygiene) and came across a man whom I see regularly at the Y.  He is an obese man.  Morbidly obese.  He is friendly enough and we exchange basic pleasantries as usual (“Hi, how are you?”  “Why yes, it is quite cold outside.”  “Yes.  I ran outside.”  “Umm-hmm.  Yes.  Quite cold!”).  Anyway, this man is relegated to a wheelchair and the only time I see him out of the wheelchair is when I should see him doing some exercises in the pool.  Quite painfully and sadly, I might add, to see the state of his physical body.

                I stare straight ahead in the mirror to check my sweaty self out as I scrub-scrub-scrub any potential nasties on my hands with the bubbly soap and water.  I once heard that one should scrub away for about 30-seconds or the approximate length of time it takes to go through the ABCs jingle.  This time, however, I didn’t recite the ABCs.  Mr. Man-in-the-wheelchair was talking to me.  What was remarkable was that he had his shirt off and was at the sink.  I don’t know what he was doing at the sink, except that the next thing I witnessed was quite startling.  There was a white plastic grocery bag and he had reached into it and pulled out something.  What?  What could it be, you ask?  It crinkled in a plastic packaging of its own, and he proceeded to tear it open.

                Chomp!  Chew-chew-chew.  I could smell the sweet smell of processed peanut butter-laden-chocolaty-corn syrup deadlies.  It was a Nutty Bar.  Now I love me some Nutty Bars like the next person, but eating something in a public bathroom, let alone my own bathroom always grosses me out.  Furthermore, such a blatantly bad-for-you food at a gym is akin to sacrilege.  I had to give it up to him though.  He didn’t care about none of that shit.  Chomp!  Chew-chew-chew-how’s the weather-chew-chew-chew.  He did, however, hide in the locker room to chow down rather than to dig into the deadlies in the lobby…

                Later that morning, on my way into work, I was listening to the local radio and they began talking about the strategies of changing the available foodies at the kiddies’ schoolies.  Carrot sticks instead of freedom fries.  Bottled (processed tap) water (by Coca-Cola Co., Pepsi Co.) instead of Sody-Pops.  Give the kids healthier choices!  Discussions on strategies to combat the deadlies ensued.  Stupid shit about trying to get parents to make better choices and teaching their children, blah blah blah.  Why stupid?  Well, because it might be impossible to try to get someone whose daily life is survival (and has always been that way, and always will be) to give a shit about buying carrots and broccoli so they can cook something up that’s healthy.  I don’t disagree with the basic premise, but truly, how do you expect to alter the course of someone’s life when the greater social structural forces are constantly working against them?  (Then the conversation turned briefly to genetics.  I about lost my head…)

                Have you ever noticed how cheap some of this bad-for-you shit is?  Subsidized by the government, no doubt.  Who would give up pop for expensive-ass orange juice?  Cheap-ass potato chips over carrot sticks?  No, thank you.  The Native Americans (Who?  You know, them Injuns) are faced with the challenge of moving away from fat-laden fry bread and other such foods that many see as synonymous with Native American culture.  Do not be fooled.  It is a result of government commodities that made high fat, high starch foods readily available to the masses of Natives compartmentalized to reservation lands.  Similarly, the poor in this country resort to consuming foods in the same manner.  Unless you were raised in a middle- to upper-class, college-educated household, your chances of eating well and appreciating it goes down exponentially.  Try going to a grocery store in a poor neighborhood and see what you find in the patrons’ grocery carts.  Even better, compare the prices of some of the produce with a higher socioeconomic grocery store.  Don’t be surprised to find the prices in the latter to be cheaper.  More people buy the produce that has a limited shelf-life in the better-to-do neighborhoods, so the supply is easier to maintain. 

                So, what exactly are we?  Creatures of habit as dictated by the hypnotizing effects of commercialism and its dizzying dance with consumerism.  Demand that you get to eat whatever the fuck you want.  But demand also that you maintain a good physical appearance.  Don’t forget to demand good health either.  (I know a person who would argue that part of the source of her weight gain is from diet sody-pops.  Well, I really don’t think so but tell you what.  How ‘bout you stop consuming that shit ‘cause its got some aspertame in it.  Now I don’t know much about this controversy, but I just know it ain’t natural.  Did you know that regular drinks such as Coke and Pepsi don’t even use sugar?  I would never have known they use corn syrup until Pepsi came out with their “Throw Back” cans, advertising that they use “real sugar”.  WTF?  I just assumed they always used sugar.  I guess it’s cheaper to use corn syrup.) 

                It never ceases to amaze me that people complain about their weight and appearance, health and well-being, but fail to account for their own contributions that led to their circumstances.  I know that most of us are automatons, slaves to the directives as dictated by commercialism, but really, is it necessary to be so indignant about your physical reality of existence?  I’m sorry, but don’t blame genetics.  I’m pretty sure that if you were born 200 or more years ago, and not born into the bourgeoisie, then you would have a completely different physique and lifestyle.  I mean, your body was meant to be worked, to sweat and toil and labor.  None of this sit behind a computer all day and eat fatty shit.  A good friend of mine recently commented, “You know, I’ve gotten to travel around the world a bit with my work.  The United States is the only country where the poor are fat!  I mean, everywhere else, the poor are thin.”  Well, to that, I say, “Look out World.  Prepare to get fat ‘cause them freedom fries is gonna be just around the corner if it ain’t already!” 

My sympathies go to the working class poor, where access to such information and knowledge, culture and upbringing, make change damn near impossible, as evidenced by the Native American tribe example above. I would imagine it would take a pervasive change in a family across an entire generation before any change of significance is assimilated into an individual’s culture.  Bottom line: ‘t’ain’t gonna happen, I’m afraid.  It’s especially lovely when the well-to-dos such as Sarah Palin or the fat pill-poppin’ fuck, Rush Limbaugh bitches about First Lady Michelle Obama’s “Let’s Move” health campaign for children, arguing that the government is trying to control what its citizens eat.  Um, no dumbasses.  You’re obviously not the one getting hurt by this.  

                Let us not forget that we are biological beings.  We are animals.  We eat, drink, sleep, and shit.  That means that we are meant to use our physical bodies to interact with our physical environment.  It is understandable to fall prey to the plenty that exists in our midst, manifesting as a mass-produced pretty product in glossy packaging at the grocery store.  The mass production includes living things, too, such as chickens, pigs, and cows.  Hell, we humans are practically mass produced.  It’s just that our land of plenty is not the land of milk and honey that the commercials suggest it to be… unless you’re eating some Nutty Bars.  I’ll have a diet sody-pop, too, please.  That’s some good shit.  And I’m being good, ‘cause it’s diet.

Pill Poppin' Legal Druggies

                I received a massage yesterday (for free, I might add, as I am frugal and not exactly raking in the dough) and asked the masseuse (who is a student finishing up her schooling and needed so many hours of practice sessions), “Are there people whose muscles are super tense, yet their pain tolerance is so low, that you can’t work them out?” 

I was anticipating that she might say “no, not really”, as I was thinking that if a person’s muscle was so hard and tough, then their pain tolerance must be high.  My reasoning was that such an individual’s muscles must be strong and surely they must be quite physically active.

To my (mild) surprise, she responded, “Oh, yeah.”  But the real kicker was what she said next.  “Those are the people who are usually on something (pain medication).” 

Yikes.  I never considered that as a possibility: people taking pain medications for the sake of dealing with their own bodies on a daily basis.  Now I get that there are some people with legitimate pain from one thing or another, such that the pain can be disabling, limiting their ability to function day to day.  Perhaps it is from a serious injury, or maybe from some kind of debilitating condition, or perhaps even a terminal condition.  But don’t tell me that every motherfucker out there that’s supporting the pharmaceutical industry through pain medications has a legitimate need for prescription-strength pills.  And I’m not talking about drugged out people who need their OxyContin fix.  I’m talking about the majority of “patients” out there that are prescribed pain medications from their doctors.  I mean, do you really need to be taking those things? 

I especially love it when the legal druggy (aka, “patient”) is young, in their twenties or thirties, and they’ve already resigned their physical bodies to atrophy and entropy.  It’s like there’s a serious disconnect for these folks.  Yes, people only lived to their mid-thirties on average about 400-years ago or something, but now, people are living well into their 70s and 80s.  Yet, so many people I’ve met are already physically defeated.  Then they get their stupid little blue handicap tag they can hang from their car mirror, and milk it for all it’s worth.  (In the United States, there are these little wheel-chair symbols on a blue tag, which allows the bearer to park their vehicle closer to the entrance of a building in a designated “handicap” spot.  When you go to a fast food chain such as the global favorite McDonald’s, you’re bound to see an obese person use that spot so they can get into the store faster and fuel their insatiable hunger, to better reach their final destination of a premature death.)

Okay.  While I’m on the subject of handicap tags and cars, what really gets my goat is when people drive to get somewhere that’s literally right down the street!  At work, most people go out to eat almost every day.  I generally avoid going out and pack a healthy lunch or leftovers.  But once every couple of weeks, I might go out to eat.  Anyone want to walk with me?  Nope.  No takers, as usual.  C’mon!  I mean, we’re talking a five-minute walk.  Instead, they all cram into their cars (at least they car pool on these occasions) and then drive around in circles looking for either a.) a parking spot that’s closest to the restaurant doors, or b.) drive around in circles in a parking garage endlessly looking for a spot somewhere!  Returning from a restaurant can be worse!  I have one coworker who inevitably will drive around the block two or three times to find the closest parking space to our workplace instead of just simply parking her car in the parking lot that’s just across the street from our building.  By the time she actually finds a spot and parks, I could’ve parked my car in the farthest possible space of our parking lot, walked across the lot in its entirety, cross the street, and walk up the four flights of stairs and be back inside my office!

Anyway, back to pills.  I’ve always shied away from pain medications.  I’ve been prescribed them on occasion, especially after surgery such as my knee surgery, or when I dislocated my shoulder and I was in serious pain while I waited for the X-rays to come back so they could confirm that there was no internal injury before they reduced my shoulder back in place.  (The latter incident was so painful, two doses of morphine didn’t do the trick thanks to a pinched nerve that was hurting the bejeezus out of me.  But once my shoulder was reduced, I was high as a kite.)  Nevertheless, I still preferred to stay away from the meds because I always feared that it could ultimately result in greater injury for me.  This is because pain lets me know that there’s something wrong.  When that pain is masked, I may think that I’m better off than I actually am, making it difficult to gauge what I should or shouldn’t do during my recovery.

Again, I don’t claim to be some all-natural, pure individual, as evidenced in my earliest blog about alcohol consumption.  However, it is a rare thing that I am so inebriated that I don’t feel pain!  That’s pretty scary.  But if you’re prescribed pain medication through a pharmaceutical whore physician (or nurse practitioner for that matter), hey man, it’s coolio, ‘cause it’s legal-o.  Really, it’s not hard to get a doc to write you a prescription.  Just look at the amounts of medication advertisements you see on television.  You need a hard-on so you can fuck like a real man?  Take this shit.  You feeling down and depressed?  If you take this, you’ll not only feel good like this perfect-looking model does on TV, but you’ll have beautiful tits like she does, too!  Then the advertiser’s voice-model’s speaking tempo picks up suddenly: “Side-effects-may-include-sudden-hearing-loss-heart-palpitations-blindness-erections-lasting-more-than-four-hours…”

I get depressed just watching those advertisements because every model on there looks so damned gorgeous and happy, and I’m being inundated with the sense that my life, my looks, my body should look that way.  It’s a brilliant sell.  Get your viewing audience feeling down about themselves and they will self-diagnose themselves with clinical depression, proceed to go to the doctor and demand medications that are so new, even the doctors don’t know what the fuck it is. 

It just amazes me as to what lengths people go through in order to forget that they’re living.  Yes, yes, I too watch television and allow my mind to go numb.  I too indulge in drinking.  I rely on exercise as a time filler and distraction.  However, I do actively try to engage in my life by thinking about things and trying to do something creative each day, no matter how trivial or ephemeral the act or thought may be.  I find that I meet so many individuals who talk about their lives in the past tense, about things that they used to be able to do, or how good a shape they used to be in, and how really, they need to be taking such-and-such pills or else they would be suffering from this and that and some other thing.  Really?  But you’re constantly tired, forgetful, and more limited in new ways because of the meds.  Okay.  I guess that’s cool, if you’re cool with it.  Just don’t forget to live your life in the meantime, because death will come to us all soon enough.  There’s no reason not to live while you’re given the opportunity.  Just stop pretending you’re already dead.  It’ll do wonders…