By Dick Platt
Corsicana Daily Sun
What in the world is so fascinating about Dec. 12, 2012. People were going nutso over this date for some reason unbeknownst to me. It’s only significance to me is it meant that Friday the 13th came on Thursday this month.
According to some news reports, pregnant women were having their labor induced so their poor offspring would have a birthday of 12/12/12. What’s up with that? I say just be happy with a birth any day in December so you can get the extra tax deduction for that year.
People all over the world were arranging to get married on 12/12/12 — some even had the marriage officiant check his/her watch and pronounce them man and wife (in most cases) at exactly 12 minutes after noon so their marriage date is 12:12 on 12/12/12. Oh, gag!
All this foolishness is for naught because, according to the ancient Mayans, the 5,125-year cycle know as the “Long Count” comes to an end on Dec. 21, 2012. This date signifies one of two possibilities — doomsday or a new age of enlightenment. Personally, I’m in favor of that new age of enlightenment stuff.
Other than the wonderful religious and festive holidays coming up, there are two apocalyptic dates on the Grouch calendar that are looming — Jan. 18, the day we head out on our relocation trek to Sarasota and Feb. 3, when the Super Bowl will be played in New Orleans. I am dreading the former and eagerly awaiting the latter.
Speaking of junk mail — I made an inventory of the junky mail items we had waiting for us when we got back from our recent three-week foray into the land of citrus trees and alligators: four credit card applications, one sweepstakes notice, three magazine subscription requests, five product advertisements, nine MediCare supplement applications, 11 wine, steak, and fruitcake (yes, that’s the one) catalogs, and 15 appeals from non-profits. Needless to say, I culled out the First Class mail (bills and Xmas cards) and sent all the rest to the landfill.
Speaking of my diet — it must be working as I did not have to use my seatbelt extender on any of the four legs of our recent air travel to and from Florida. That’s right — now the truth is out — I carry my own personal extender in my briefcase on all flights just in case. This way, no one but The Little Woman (she hates that name) and I need to know if the clasp comes up a couple inches short around my ample girth. I did have a little trouble fitting in behind the fold-up tray tables for the same reason I usually prefer a table to a booth in a restaurant — I like to be able to breathe!
In actual fact, I had lost about 28 pounds in the previous three months but, sad to say, as of this writing I managed to pack about six back on in Florida. Oh well, it’s back to counting calories, fat, and sodium for the old Grouch.
Speaking of exercise, I would rather diet than exercise. I know you should do both but exercising makes me spill my martini. My feeling is that if the Good Lord really wanted me to touch my toes, he would have put them on my knees. The only sit-ups I do is when I have dropped the TV remote between my legs. We do have an exercise bike in the master bedroom which TLW uses to hang clothes that need folding. I gave up on riding that stationary bike because it reminded me that my life was going nowhere. I would get into lifting weights if they just weren’t so damned heavy. Pa-dum-dum.
In support of my rant against physical exercise, I present a couple classic examples from the animal kingdom. A whale does water aerobics all day, eats only fish, drinks only water — and still looks like a whale! A rabbit hops, skips, and runs all day and only lives a few years while a tortoise never runs, does mostly nothing, and often lives to be a hundred years old. Go figure!
My doctor insists that walking daily adds minutes to your life. If that were true, then mail carriers would live forever. And what is so hot about adding minutes to my life with those daily walks? It just means, when I’m 85 years old, I can look forward to an additional six or seven months in a nursing home at $4,500 per month.
I will close this rant with an age-old axiom which goes like this: “Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a balds head and a beer guts, and still think they are sexy.”
Dick Platt is a Daily Sun columnist. His column appears on Tuesdays. Want to “Soundoff” on this column? Email: firstname.lastname@example.org