The Rock

Today my world suffered a tremor. Whether it comes by itself or is a precursor to future events, time will tell. But I was shaken, once again, by forces I cannot control.

Hubby had a medical problem that sent him to the hospital today. His eyesight in one eye all of a sudden had gaps in it. True to form, he quickly downloaded a test off the internet, the results of which were enough to get him to pick up the phone and get an emergency appointment with an opthamologist. Hubby is a diabetic you see, and eye problems are frequent with them.

So I tried to concentrate on work while he went off to the hospital, and I tried to ignore the various scary scenarios that presented themselves to my mind like so many demons poking their heads in through the doorway.

Blindness. Inability to work. Inability to drive.

Suddenly there loomed before me the prospect of my slightly estranged husband becoming someone who needed assistance. And that is topsy-turvy. The ground liquified under my feet.

Hubby is my Rock. In fact, he is quite a few people's Rock. He's the one you can always count on, whether you need something fixed or need a lift somewhere.

He's the stubborn old goat who knows perfectly well what he should be eating and how much exercise he should be getting, yeah yeah yeah, not bloody likely... Mr. "Not Dead Yet", always ready to poke fun at life, quick with the bon mot, taking perverse pleasure in the downfall of the stupid and foolish. A shoulder to lean on, relentless in his pursuit of technology, and an unflagging curiosity that leaves no stone unturned in his determination to be right about everything.

To say I was sick with worry would be an understatement. The whole world had suddenly shifted on its axis. Hubby might be in trouble. Hubby might not be immortal, after all. In fact, there may come a time when Hubby might no longer be there, at all. The thought left me reeling.

Quite a few people depend on Hubby always being there, always being himself. Not the least of which is Hubby! In shock from a) being seen immediately, and b) being treated immediately, he took tomorrow off to recover a bit. Perhaps he'll be assessing his mortality, taking stock of how he should be changing his diet or his sedentary lifestyle.

If I were living with him, I'd be wanting him to stay in bed and bringing him tea. And hovering over him, worrying. As it is, I'll be worrying from a distance and wondering what he's doing. Wondering if this incident was the tip of the proverbial iceberg, and how long we may have before another tremor shakes the foundation of our reality. Wondering if this will be a wake-up call for him. As it was for me.

We do not know what the future holds for us, nor how long we have with each other. Every moment is more precious than we know.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

White flour, Sugar, Caffeine, and Alcohol, if you suffer from fibromyalgia. I was reading up on it the other day, on the internet of course. Some doctor urging sufferers to stay away from those four deadly sins.

And yes, they are sins - according to the latest religion to seize the imagination of the masses.

HEALTH.

We're so obsessed with health (this year) that one would think we were the first humans ever to consider it's worth. The churches are empty, but the gyms, spas, and eco-groceries are overflowing. Hardly one person in a hundred knows what the issues are when they go to vote, or what goes on during city council meetings, but EVERYBODY knows you have to eat right and exercise, that it's all a part of your self-esteem, that recycling will save the planet, and that automobiles have brought about our doom.

Etc, etc, etc.

From my perspective, life was a lot simpler when you had god and the devil, and good and evil. At least then you didn't have to feel guilty for enjoying your food. You gave thanks, and ate it, and enjoyed it.

Nowadays, we have ads on tv like this one: A woman staggers over to a chair. She can barely move. She's sore because she spent four hours in the gym , to work off a hot fudge sundae. The ad goes on to sell some kind of limited-calorie snack. And it's taken for granted that if we're stupid enough to eat a hot-fudge sundae, we deserve the punishment of a four-hour workout at the gym.

I remember a time, more than 30 years ago, when going to the gym was FUN for the people that did it. These days, it's nothing short of desperation.

I'd been wondering why all my joints were hurting more than usual lately. In point of fact, I've been having less of all of these items than in previous years, but seeing them listed like that still gave me a turn.

"What's left?" was the phrase that leapt immediately to mind.

Oh, lots, of course. Lots and lots of healthy, delicious, and mouth-watering foods. There are plenty of alternatives.

But let's be clear about one thing: they are alternatives.

Substitutes. Knock-offs.

Consolation prizes.

We are each creatures of our own generation's addictions. I managed to skip drugs and tobacco. But sugar and white flour got me at an early age. I take my coffee so strong that it's impossible to drink without cream in it - friends of mine who determinedly drink skim milk have had to put cream in my coffee in order to choke it down. (They all tell me it's delicious.)

Alcohol, well let's just say I've done some time, and leave it at that. I do enjoy a glass of wine, a cold beer, a caesar, and a margarita. And many, many other delicious drinks. Sometimes to excess, most often not.

But my momentary shock at seeing these four things listed by the good doctor put me in a frame of mind I recognized. It was my mother, talking about how she would never, ever, quit smoking. That she loved her smokes, and everyone could go to hell, because if she couldn't smoke and have her Khaluha, what was the point?

In other words, "What's left?"

It's the same sentiment. It's called addiction. Mom was addicted to cigarettes. I'm addicted to white flour, sugar, and caffeine. (I hesitate to say I'm addicted to alcohol - I'm no more addicted to it than 90% of the population. But you get my drift.)

Everywhere we go these days, every day, there's a new food we're not supposed to eat. Red meat. Fish. Carbs. Fat. Even good old milk has come under fire.

It gets to a point where the average person simply can't manage all the information about what they're not supposed to eat. Some of them devote themselves to the endless study of this new religion, others simply backslide and go buy a box of Krispy Kreams. Most of us just buy what we like and hope we don't die too soon, or in too much pain.

What ever happened to the life-giving properties of food?

I believe that food is WONDERFUL! I love food! I think it's delicious!

And if you don't overdose on any one thing, if you eat a bit of everything, you'll probably be all right. Your chances are pretty good.

So, I have NOT eaten my last brownie, or piece of blueberry pie. I will continue to drink my coffee strong, and puts lots of sugar in it and top it with the richest cream I can afford to buy. And alcohol will continue to grace my table. And I'll consume them all wholeheartedly, unreservedly, shamelessly, and enjoy every morsel and drop.

Because the one thing I've never been able to stomach is religion.

Sugar, Sugar...

DON'T GET ME STARTED!!!!!
grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.......

I live with a man who has type 2 diabetes. A hatred of physical activity. And an insatiable appetite for carbs. Specifically, bread.

Yeas ago, when Montingnac first appeared, he watched two people who work with us drop 100 lbs and get fit. He was a man inspired. He talked about Montignac like a born-again. He was a fanatic. He was so determined we were going to do this, he was going to cook, he was going to arrange it all. He impatiently searched through the books at Costco, and finally bought the damned thing in French because he simply couldn't wait another DAY to get the book in English. He raved about it all the way home. He sat down at the table to begin reading...

(At this point, you must imagine an expectant hush falling over our lives)

And then he came to page 4, where it says you can't have bread for two weeks.

TWO WEEKS.

Fourteen days.

Montingnac sailed into the garbage can, and nothing more was said.

So this morning, I'd given up trying to pack lunch. There's nothing in the house but bread. Oh, excuse me - there's bread, AND bagels, AND buns! I said to him "Take a banana at least." He argued (which he ALWAYS DOES!) "a banana is just as bad as bread."

I couldn't let that pass. "Oh sure, honey, a banana might have lots of carbs, but it must have something ELSE in it, unlike your four slices of raisin bread, which contains ONLY carbs..."

And so it went. Finally, he ended the argument with "I'll have a half a banana tonight - with some ice-cream!"

I give up. He's suicidal - death by sugar.