If you want to look wafer-thin and svelte, with the sunken cheeks and flat stomach that aspiring young Hollywood starlets long for, then have I got a weight loss plan for you….
As an expert on most things, I find people are constantly approaching me asking all sorts of questions like, “Why is it that cats always land on their feet?” and “Which is better, cake or pie?” [Answer: Cake], and “Why are you following me?” (I get that last one all of the time.)
Another question people are always asking me is how they can lose weight. Constantly trying to slim down has become an American obsession. But I recently stumbled onto an amazing weight loss solution that sheds the weight not in weeks or months but HOURS! Incredibly, it doesn’t require rigorous exercise, draconian starvation diets, weight loss supplements, or even Ozempic. If you want to have the sunken cheeks of a Parisian runway model, just do what I did. Within days, people will be staring at you in envy, quietly wondering, “How did he lose all that weight?” and “Is he dead?”
My new weight loss plan worked with shocking results. Here’s the secret: My wife and I booked a 25-day vacation, starting with a week touring London on our own, then flying to Istanbul to join an organized tour of Turkey and Greece, including nine days of island hopping through several Greek Isles in the Aegean Sea. Fabulous, I know. We arrived in London, jet lagged, but otherwise fine. The following morning, we had a typical London breakfast of badly prepared eggs, bacon, and toast. But I decided to go one step further, by ordering a fresh fruit salad, which my wife opted to skip.
Fast forward four hours – cue food poisoning and the worst diarrhea of my life. Over the next three days, I must have lost every ounce of bodily fluid inside me that was not technically blood. Not to be too graphic, but let’s just say that my oral and posterior cavities competed aggressively in a race to empty all of my bodily fluids in a gushing exodus from my body.
To suggest that I was experiencing the human anatomy’s impersonation of Niagara Falls would be a ridiculous comparison. Because it was way worse than that. A more accurate description would be the eruption of Krakatoa (or for you millennials who’ve never heard of the historic Krakatoa eruption of August 26, 1883, feel free to substitute Mount St. Helens’ blast. And read up on your history, please!)
I could not leave my hotel room for days. I estimate I used approximately 18% of the city of London’s entire toilet paper inventory. I was so weak I fainted and collapsed on the floor attempting to reach the bathroom in the middle of the night, only to be awakened by my wife hysterically screaming, “Tim, you fell on the floor!!!” (True.)
Ah, the jaw-dropping sights of Istanbul, Turkey. The historic Hagia Sophia church / mosque, built in 532 AD, the world-famous Basilica Cistern, built during the 6th century by Byzantine Emperor Justinian I, and the chaotic traffic of riverboats along the stunning Bosporus Strait, were just a few of the many unbelievable sights… I missed out on seeing.
After three days of not being able to stand the sight of food, lest it trigger another case of projectile vomiting, I slowly regained my strength. By the time we flew to Istanbul to join our Turkey / Greek Isles tour group, I was feeling almost back to normal. But then on the very first day of our tour, as we walked among the ancient ramparts of Istanbul, it suddenly struck me again. DOWN GOES FRAZIER! DOWN GOES FRAZIER!I started feeling dizzy, nauseous, and in desperate need of finding a bathroom. Perhaps this is a good time to point out that in Istanbul, most of the public toilets are squat toilets. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, kids, seriously, you need to pay more attention in social studies class.
By 3pm on our very first day of the tour, I told our trip leader I’d need to skip the Welcome Dinner that evening. By 6pm, I was pretty sure I’d have to miss out on the Istanbul walking tour the following day. By 9pm, I was in the Emergency Room of a local hospital. Three hours later, having had my body pumped full of IV fluids, I was taxied back to our hotel. Six hours later, the following morning, after fainting en route to the bathroom for a second time in less than a week, Michele had to get a wheelchair to take me to the lobby and back to the ER.
On this second visit, doctors were now worried about the possibility of a stroke due to my severe dehydration and / or a risk of sepsis due to the aggressive intestinal infection that by now had spread to my bloodstream and my urine. Not good, I know.
Four hours later, after filling me with more IV fluids and antibiotics, they discharged me again. Ultimately, we had to bail on the rest of our bucket list tour and fly home, experiencing literally only five hours of what was supposed to be a 16-day tour. It turns out that In the space of less than a week, I had lost 11 pounds. If I had ever desired that “heroin chic” look of a 90’s fashion model, I totally nailed it.
On the bright side, I received an insane number of caring, concerned Facebook comments from close to 200 people, some of whom I had not seen nor heard from in years. Of course, there was no shortage of people trying to help me laugh at my situation, with actual comments like…
A selfie photo I took in the Istanbul Hospital’s ER while I waited to be treated. I have to say, my wife was a saint, making sure I received all the critical medical care I needed. I was very, very lucky she was there to advocate for me, because my brain was in a total fog (yes, even more than usual) for much of this.
“Hang in there, Tim. This too shall pass. ; ) “
“Sorry about being stuck in a Turkish Hospital. Look on the bright side, Tim. At least it wasn’t a Turkish prison.”
“Tim, I need to lose ten pounds in time for my wedding next month. Can you text me the fruit salad recipe that caused you to get sick?”
“Hey, buddy, if you don’t pull through, can I have your golf clubs?”
Things like that. What can I say, human suffering sometimes brings out the best in people.
I’m pleased to report that I am back at home and on the mend. I am regaining strength by the day. But please don’t tell my wife. I plan to use this recent health scare to get out of housework for at least the next six weeks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Facebook post from an annoyingly rich dude: Just bought a new Lamborghini. I couldn’t decide on white or silver. I opted for white because it came with this super model. Her name is Mackenzie. Or maybe it was McKenna. Sure is great to be me.
I remember a time when life was simpler and far less annoying. Back then I actually spent most of my free time doing productive things like reading books and helping my kids with their math homework.
That all stopped, however, in February 2004, the month that Facebook launched. It forever changed how we spend way too much of our spare time. 21 years later, I still squander too many minutes each day scrolling through photos of people’s haute cuisine restaurant meals or recently completed home renovations.
Too often my news feed is bombarded by photos people post touting their nine-year-old’s amazing little league accomplishments or broadcasting their latest promotion to a position like Global Vice President of Strategic Strategizing, which they clearly posted primarily to point out that their career has been far more successful than mine ever was. Thanks for the reminder.
Technically, I can’t prove that Facebook is the brainchild of Satan, but that’s my current working theory. If you ask for my opinion – and trust me, my adult children never do – Facebook is the ideal social media platform if you’re interested in learning how much better everybody else’s lives – and children – are than yours.
After 30 minutes on Facebook, I rediscover just how much more successful a human being most of my friends are than I am. As a bonus, today I learned about a creative eggplant & cauliflower soup recipe from Carla. (I probably should mention I don’t care for either of these foods – or Carla.)
I always feel inadequate when I come upon self-promoting Facebook posts like these:
Humble bragging announcements, like this one from Rich Boasterman:
“I was stunned to learn I’ve been awarded Miami-Dade County’s Person of the Year – again. I feel so humbled and honored to be recognized for my countless humanitarian achievements. All I did was mentor 2,000 at-risk teenagers and build a state-of-the-art homeless shelter – and several other selfless things I will mention in four separate posts. There were so many other worthy people who were almost as deserving of this great honor as I am.”
Over-the-top proclamations of everlasting love, like this one from Faith Lovingheart:
“I’m blessed to have finally found my soulmate after so many years of searching. Brian and I are officially engaged. He is the love of my life, the wing beneath my wings, the sun to my moon. Every day he makes me want to be a better person. And I knew we would be happy together forever the moment I met him two weeks ago at the craps table at Caesar’s in Vegas.”
Facebook post from a successful architect: I just finished building my 2nd log home. This is just the servant’s quarters. The great room’s 20-ft. wide stone fireplace came out nicely, as you will see from the 15 photos I have posted.
Gloating posts crowing about how awesome their child is, like this one from Joyce Bettermom:
“I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of my son Henry. But I’m going to, anyway. Not only did he become valedictorian of his class, but he was voted MVP of his soccer team. After med school, Henry plans to be a brain surgeon and cure cancer. I can’t wait to see what he achieves next year when he enters first grade.”
Or posts intended mainly to make you jealous of their life, like this one by Chase Oceanview:
“Life for me and Veronica has been so busy refurbishing our Aspen ski-out chalet this summer that we’ve barely had time to visit our Catalina beachside bungalow, let alone our vacation villa in Corsica. Here are photos of our remodeled 7,000 sq. ft. cliffside cottage in Maui. Today, I think I need some self-care, so I plan to go for a drive in my new Bugatti Chiron Super Sport Noire.”
I think Facebook should create an algorithm that blocks any post from my feed that will make me feel bad about myself. Personally, I would like to a lot more honest, truthful posts, like these…
Honest posts about people’s marriage, like this one from Rashida Loveless:
“This is a photo of me and my husband Ralph on our wedding day. Can’t believe it’s been it’s been 15 years since we both said, ‘I Do.’ I probably should have said ‘I Don’t.’ Since then Ralph’s put on 50 pounds and I barely get four hours sleep a night, thanks to his snoring. I think he loves his LEGO collection more than me. But at least our marriage is not like Ken and Marge’s. Talk about a train wreck. Glad we’re not them.”
Career updates that sound far more realistic, like this one from Herb Wurkzadrahg:
“After twenty years with my company, I’m still chained to my cubicle and not making nearly enough to pay for my kids’ college education. But hey, at least I now get a third week of vacation for having survived this toxic hellhole for another five years. I seriously need to update my resume. This job sucks.”
Facebook post from a bragging mom: This is my eight-year-old son Bradley. He just finished performing Prokofiev – Piano Concerto No. 2, considered one of the five most difficult piano concertos ever composed. He just got a full scholarship to the Yale School of Music. So disappointing. We were hoping for Juilliard.
Accurate news about their child’s more modest achievements, like this one from Kathy Hopedphermor:
“My son Curtis is doing well enough. He’s only in fifth grade but I can already tell that grad school is out of the question. He’s just lazy. But he raised his GPA from 2.0 to 2.3 this semester, so I guess that’s a thing, right? Did I mention he recently earned the high score on Call of Duty 5. Is that a good thing? I really have no idea anymore.”
Vacation updates that sound more down to earth, like this one from Albert Campzalot:
“A cruise to the Mediterranean looks increasingly unlikely again this year, given I’ve been out of commission with a back injury from raking leaves. So, this year, we’ll probably do another staycation here in Buloxi. Either that or maybe spend a week at my sister’s house in Beaumont, TX. God, I hope her college kids won’t be there. They are so obnoxious. And they love to terrorize my labradoodle Cosmo.”
Yeah, these sound far more honest than most of the Facebook posts I see in my feed. Why can’t we get more posts like these? I’d be happy to give them a or even a .
Well, I need to go. I need to log onto Facebook and post a few photos of our incredible vacation to the Galapagos. Did I mention we stayed on a 100-foot yacht? It was nice, but I miss our vacation home in Cabo right about now.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
This is a recent photo of me. For 70 years of age, I guess I look okay. My teeth are a little crooked, My hairline is receding, both my knees have been replaced, and I still could use to lose 20 pounds. This old body is slowly falling apart. Nowadays, I’m just above average. And that’s okay with me.
Of the first ten numbers in our counting system (if you don’t count zero) 7 is my favorite number. When I was a kid and more superstitious than I am now, 7 was my Lucky Number. Many great athletes wore that number: Mickey Mantle, “Pistol” Pete Maravich, soccer legend Cristiano Ronaldo, not to mention Tony McElhenny of the Binghamton (NY) Rumble Ponies minor league baseball team. Tony played short stop for one season before the Rumble Ponies released him – which is why I should have followed my own advice “not to mention” him.
There are seven days of the week, Seven Wonders of the World, Seven Colors of the Rainbow, and Seven Harry Potter books. The night before my wedding, my then-fiancée and I hosted a “night at the races” pre-wedding party at a local horse racing track outside of Philadelphia. The seventh horse in the seventh race was named “Michele du Nord” (Michele of the North). I placed a bet on it to win. And it did! I saw this as a promising omen for our future life together since my wife is not only named Michele, but also, being from Canada, she was literally Michele of the North.
I feel like I have strayed off from the point I was trying to make. Where was I going, anyway? Oh, right. My point is that in many ways, my life on a 1-to-10 scale has also been like the number 7. Not a perfect 10, but far from a 1 or 2. So many aspects about my life, my experiences, and my capabilities could be ranked as a 7, in other words, Above Average.
You can call me Mr. Above Average – because in most things, that’s where I tend to land – unless it’s knowing how to build or fix ANYTHING on my own. Then I’m an absolute zero. I love sports of all kinds: tennis, racquetball, pickleball, golf, you name it. How good am I? I’m slightly above average in almost all of these sports, about a 7. People who excel at sports love to play me because they are all but assured of winning and feeling better about their athletic prowess afterwards.
It’s been this way most of my adult life – except when it came to the joys and struggles of parenting – in which case I routinely felt like a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth from a joyful 10 to an exasperated 3 (or a lower number during their teenage years). Parenting is an extreme sport.
I’ll admit I’m no 10 in the looks department. In my heyday, nobody ever compared me to Brad Pitt or Paul Newman. Although once someone said I looked like I could be John Lithgow’s brother for some reason. (I was never sure whether that was a compliment or an insult.) As for my wife, I’d have to say in terms of the 1-to-10 scale of physical perfection, she is probably a.. um…Perfect 10! (Every once in a while, she reads this column, so why take chances?)
Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve loved sports of all kinds. I play tennis, golf, pickleball, basketball, skiing, and many others. The one thing all these sports have in common is that I’m not great at any of them. I’m just okay, slightly above average really. Pretty much like most things I set my mind to in life.
I have come to terms with the fact that I don’t really excel at most things in life. (That said, I can microwave a “perfect 10” frosted cinnamon pop tart, but I’m not sure that’s worth bragging about.) I envy people with remarkable talents, like my wife’s incredible skill as a portrait artist. Many of my closest friends have exceptional skills like my friend Jerry who built his own home. It seems that most people who live in my community are extremely artistically gifted. That’s why I’ve unfriended most of them on Facebook.
I have long ago decided that for most things in my life good enough is, well, good enough – except when it comes to pizza, in which case, good enough simply won’t do. When I have a serious pizza craving, I refuse to cut corners. (I’m talking to you, Dominos.)
I don’t feel bad that I can’t afford the fanciest new car. I don’t beat myself up that I lack the ability to create stunning works of artlike my life partner or play the piano like a prodigy. I’m content to live an above average life, take an above average hike in the woods, relax on the couch patting our above average cats while watching an above average detective series on Netflix. And a couple times a week, I will go to the local pickleball courts to lose several games to older players who are much more above average than I am.
As I looked over this week’s column, I have to say, it’s not one of my best. But it’s not one of my worst. I’d say it’s above average. And that’s okay with me.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
Recently I created a bit of a panic with a buddy of mine who became deeply distraught over my wife’s shocking passing – because I texted him that she had been killed. Let me back up a bit. Like most people, I use my phone for texting all the time. But I don’t like typing, because it takes too long. So, unless it’s a short message like, “okay” or “I’ll be home in 10 minutes” or in the case of one of my daughters, “No, I won’t loan you $800 for a new iPhone,” then I usually dictate my text using the voice recognition feature. Saves me so much time.
Which brings me to the subject of my wife’s death, which – and I can’t stress this enough – never happened. She’s fine. Honest. If you’re a regular reader, or even if you’re someone who’s irregular, you probably know by now that throughout our marriage, we’ve always had cats. We’ve also fostered kittens – dozens of them by now. I love cats. Heck, I even sing to them – mainly to annoy my wife.
We had this one adorable calico kitty named Mischief. But over time, I gave her the nickname of Misha. She was a sweet furry companion, a real lap cat. She would routinely follow me to bed at nighttime and sleep on my pillow. She’d often knead my hair – adorable, I agree – and occasionally painful. I loved Misha deeply, which is why I was profoundly saddened to learn one day that she had escaped out the front door, ran off, was hit by a car and killed.
The next day, I got a text from a buddy of mine named Frank, reminding me about our lunch plans. I texted him back and told him that I would have to pass on lunch. I was not up for it because, as I texted, “I’m feeling a little down today. Misha was killed last night.”
Only that was not how my dictation came through. The message Frank received was: “I’m feeling a little down today. Michele was killed last night.”
“OMG I’m so sorry, man. Howd it happen?” Frank texted back in shock.
“She was hit by a car,” I nonchalantly replied, unaware of the typo that changed Misha to Michele.
“A car? A car??? Did they catch the guy? Was he a drunk driver? Were you there when it happened?” a stunned Frank replied.
“No idea what happened or who the driver was. I was watching an episode of The Simpsons at the time. You know the one where Homer almost blows up the nuclear plant he works at when he falls asleep on the job. Pretty funny episode, I have to say,” I wrote back.
“Tim, U okay? Do U want me to come over, buddy?” Frank inquired.
“That’s okay. I have a busy day today. I need to go to Costco. And after that I have to go to the post office,” I casually explained.
“Tim, buddy, are U sure U should be doing a Costco run after what just happened?”
“Well, I’m almost out of Twizzlers and granola bars, And I could use some more detergent,” I clarified.
“Wow, I have to say, not sure I could handle this tragedy as calmly as U. Tim, I think maybe U R in shock,” Frank probed.
“Nah, not really. To be honest, she was getting pretty old anyway. I figured she wasn’t going to be around much longer,” I wrote back.
“Seriously, dude? That seems a bit callous, pardon me for saying. She had a lot of good years left in her,” Frank wrote back, now starting to freak out.
“Well maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I sure miss her,” I sighed in response.
“I know this might be a bit premature to ask, but are U thinking about any sort of memorial service?” Frank asked, feeling uneasy about what to say next.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go to all that fuss. I’ve been through this a few times before.”
“Tim, What are U saying???!!! R U thinking clearly, my friend? How can I help?” Frank implored.
“Well, I was planning to bury her in the backyard. You don’t happen to have a shovel, do you, Frank?” I asked.
“A shovel? A SHOVEL??? Of course, I have a shovel. Dude, U R really not thinking clearly right now,” Frank texted back, increasingly concerned about my mental state.
“I don’t want to impose. I was going to get a shovel at Costco anyway,” I calmly texted back.
“Enough about the shovel! Jesus, Tim. I think I better come over. On my way,” Frank wrote back frantically.
Then I texted back, “You know the saddest part about all of this, Frank?”
“I can’t imagine. Tell me, buddy.”
“Turns out she was pregnant. And I had repeatedly told my wife that we needed to get her neutered so that she would not get pregnant. But my wife never got around to doing it,” I wrote with a bit of melancholy.
“Pregnant? Seriously? Oh My God! This keeps getting worse and worse. Tim, I had no idea your wife was pregnant. I hope she and her baby didn’t suffer,” Frank wrote back in utter disbelief.
“What are you talking about, Frank? Michele’s not pregnant.”
“But you just wrote – wait, hold on. Michele’s not pregnant? But you said she was killed in a car crash. You have me totally flipping out, buddy!” Frank wrote back in exasperation.
Eventually we both figured out how this dialogue went off the rails. I explained that it was our cat Misha, not my wife Michele, who had died.
In case you were curious, this kitty’s name was Mischief, AKA “Misha.”
I guess the lesson is to carefully re-read my texts before I press SEND. In fact, now I always check my texts BEFORE I press SEND. Well, most of the time, anyway.
That’s all for now. I need to go. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight. I just dictated the following text to my wife: “Sweetie, dinner will be ready at 6pm. It’s your favorite: Barbecued Chicken.”
My wife immediately fired back a snippy response: “What’s wrong with you? Why in the world would you think my favorite meal is Barbecued Children??”
Uh, oh. I did it again….
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Notice how the wife meticulously measures just the right amount of detergent. Meanwhile, the husband pours half a bottle of bleach directly onto the laundry, thereby bypassing the bleach drawer. That’s just smart efficiency, if you ask any husband.
If you’ve been married for more than six weeks, sooner or later you’ll face one of the most contentious challenges a couple must confront: deciding on the proper way to do laundry. While both men and women technically possess the physical capability to perform this task, their approaches are as different as fine chardonnay and gas station nachos. As a result, these differences can turn into heated battles.
To help you navigate these tumultuous waters, I have compiled a step-by-step comparison of how women and men approach the sacred art of laundering clothes. Check your gender to be sure you know which approach you should follow.
Step 1: Sorting the Laundry
Women’s Approach:
Once a week, gather all the dirty clothes from the various hampers in the house, including the one in the bathroom, the one in the bedroom, and the mystery pile your husband swears he “was totally going to get to.”
Separate whites from colors, ensuring that no rogue red socks infiltrate the pristine whites and turn them an angry pink.
Further separate delicates, towels, jeans, and workout clothes into their own separate piles because apparently, different fabrics have different temperature and washing requirements.
Check all pockets for money, gum, rogue tissues, and – if you have young kids – LEGOs.
Stare in horror at what your husband has wadded up into a jumbled mass the size of a small moose and thrown into the hamper. Debate whether it can be salvaged or should just be set on fire, to prevent a potentially dangerous toxic waste dump from engulfing your house.
Men’s Approach:
Once every four months, grab everything from the hamper and the floor (same thing, really) and stuff it all into the washing machine until it is so full you can barely close the door. Remember, if it’s not overflowing, there’s room for more.
Consider checking pockets but then get distracted by a hilarious Bud Lite commercial on TV and forget.
Step 2: Selecting the Wash Settings
Women’s Approach:
Carefully consult the care labels on each garment.
Select the appropriate water temperature and cycle: cold for delicates, warm for colors, hot for whites, and, for unknown fabrics, Google it just to be safe.
Add just the right amount of detergent, fabric softener, and maybe even a color-safe bleach booster.
Adjust the settings accordingly so nothing shrinks, bleeds, or turns into something a miniature poodle could comfortably squeeze into.
Men’s Approach:
Turn the dial to whatever setting the machine is already on. It was fine last time, right?
Dump in a generous amount of detergent – more soap means cleaner clothes, obviously.If the water starts foaming like your two-year-old’s bubble bath, you probably have the right amount.
Hit the start button.
Check back two days later when you suddenly remember you never took the clothes out of the washing machine.
Step 3: Transferring Clothes to the Dryer
Women’s Approach:
Carefully pull out each item, one by one, and inspect for stains. If a stain remains, rewash immediately by hand to prevent the stain from becoming permanent.
Separate delicate items that should never see the inside of a dryer and lay them out flat or hang them to dry.
Set the dryer to the appropriate heat level: low for delicates, medium for everyday wear, and high for towels and sheets.
Add a dryer sheet because fresh-smelling clothes are one of the little joys of living in a civil society.
Men’s Approach:
Shovel the entire load into the dryer like you’re shoveling coal into the firebox of an 1830s steam engine train bound for the Dakota Territories.
Forget about delicates. Men don’t wear delicates, so you can ignore this issue.
Turn the heat to “High” because heat equals dry, and dry equals done.
Close the door and return to watching the game.
If you discover that your wife’s sweat pants have drastically shrunk to something a toddler could wear, secretly throw it in the trash and tell her you never saw it. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it, honey?”
Step 4: Folding and Putting Away
When the laundry is done, notice how the wife neatly folds every item and puts similar items together, like these towels. The husband, on the other hand, uses the time-tested “entropy” system, in which all the clothes are shoved into a giant pile – to be sorted out later. Much later.
Women’s Approach:
Remove clothes immediately to prevent wrinkles.
Fold each item neatly, ensuring shirts are stacked, socks are paired, and towels are folded to fit the closet in their proper spot.
Hang up dress shirts, blouses, and anything that even hints at needing a hanger.
Put everything away in its designated spot, where it belongs. Your work is done.
Men’s Approach:
Remember the clothes you put in the dryer last week and put the game on pause.
Grab the entire pile and dump it onto the nearest available flat surface, the kitchen floor.
Start to fold a couple shirts, then remember how boring this is. Decide to shove the entire mass into the floor of the closet. There! Job finished!
Final Step: Review Your Work
Women’s Approach:
Take note of what went wrong and adjust for next time.
Reflect on how grateful your husband will be when he sees all his clothes so neatly folded and stored in their proper repositories. Yes, he’s lucky to have you as his wife.
Try not to get triggered by the fact that in reality your husband is oblivious to all your hard work and asks if you could get him another beer.
Men’s Approach:
Act slightly indignant when your wife screams that her favorite cashmere sweater has shrunk four sizes.
Calmly de-escalate the situation by saying, “Is it possible you’ve put on a little weight recently?”
Say nothing as your wife gives you a daggers glare that could frighten a terrorist.
Hide your smile as your wife angrily announces you’re permanently banned from doing laundry ever again. Congratulations. Mission accomplished.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
Now and then, I sometimes worry that things will go horribly awry. The other day, while out doing errands, I wondered, did I remember to turn off the stove? Close the front door? Unplug the toaster? It got me anxious… which is why, when I finally got home, everything was just fine. See? Worrying works!
You know, they say that worrying is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but gets you nowhere. My wife says that I worry too much, that I fret over every little thing that could go wrong, when the reality is, none of those things ever do. But she just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that the act of worrying is actually a highly effective, scientifically backed method of preventing disaster. Sure, she says I’m “obsessive” or “paranoid” or “a nervous nelly,” but I’ve done the math, and I’m convinced I’m right: worrying works!
I’ve started keeping track of some of the things I worry about – big things, small things, catastrophic things – and after careful analysis, I can confirm that more than 95% of these unpleasant scenarios never actually happen. And here’s the key: the reason they never occur is because I worried about them. That’s right, I’m the human equivalent of an emotional insurance policy. My worrying creates a protective bubble preventing the events I fear from materializing.
When my girls were in middle school if I hadn’t spent hours stressing over the possibility that one of them might get teased or tormented at school, they would have certainly at some point been accosted by a gang of sixth grade mean girls intent on humiliating them for a fashion faux pas by pelting them with bottles of hand lotion, lip gloss, or whatever else middle school girls keep in their purse. But since I worried about it, they always came home unscathed – conclusive proof positive that worrying is the best kind of prevention.
Let me explain how my Worrying Works theory is scientifically sound, by sharing a few examples.
A Cat Getting Loose
I know it’s irrational, but every time I open the front door to leave the house, I’m concerned one of our three cats will see their fleeting window of opportunity and make a run for it. I worry about them getting hit by a car, getting devoured by a coyote, or just deciding to leave us for a family of more responsible pet owners. They never actually do make a run for it, preferring instead to park themselves inside whatever newest cardboard box just arrived from Amazon. I can only assume that my intense worrying about this scenario somehow convinces them not to attempt a jail break. Cats are perceptive like that.
Falling Down the Stairs
I’m no longer in my prime, so the issue of falling actually is serious problem for people my age. I’m not exaggerating when I say that every time I descend a staircase, I’m mentally preparing myself for the possibility that I will trip, tumble and fall headfirst into a coma – probably while carrying a helpless kitten or a priceless Ming vase (although I don’t currently own a Ming vase).
The prospect of this horrible accident haunts me so much that I tightly cling to the handrail like it’s my lifeline. Clearly, obsessively worrying that I might fall has worked because I have never once fallen down the stairs. (I have accidentally tripped over our cat Zippy lounging on the landing a couple times, however.)
Running Out of Money
Ever since I found out five days before the start of my second year that my father could no longer afford to pay for my college education (true), I’ve been a bit obsessed with financial security. I have this nagging feeling that eventually our nest egg will run out, and we’ll be forced to sell our house and move into a trailer park where our unit is right next door to a recently released ex-con who did time for arson, plays Metallica at full volume at 2am, and hates cats.
The reality is that our financial planner says we have enough of a cushion comfortably to get us through the next ten years. Yeah, but what about after that? Hopefully, by anxiously checking our bank balance every nine hours, my financial day of reckoning can be postponed.
At every annual physical, I worry this will be the time my doctor tells me I have a brain tumor the size of a grapefruit. So far, that’s never been the case. However, recently he told me I could lose a few lbs. Now I’m worried about my weight.
My House Getting Destroyed
I know it’s a bit extreme, but sometimes when I leave the house, I wonder if I’ve left the stove on, or worse – if the house is going to spontaneously combust. Either that or vanish into a mysterious sinkhole that was lurking for all these years directly under our house. But despite my constant worry, I’ve never come home to a smoking pile of ashes or any other disaster – unless you consider my cable TV going out due to a windstorm a disaster. I’ll never know with 100% certainty, but I’m pretty sure my anxious brain is working overtime to keep our house safe.
Annoyingly, my wife doesn’t appreciate the thousands of dollars my habit of worrying about absolutely everything has saved us. Okay, I’ll admit that I can’t prove that my compulsive worrying has kept the countless worst-case scenarios at bay. But I’m not ready to let down my guard. I know that the moment I do, my car will break down on the way to the airport, and Zippy will escape out the garage door that I forgot to close. And I’ll probably get a cavity.
You may think I’m crazy. But my system has been working for many years. And my advice to you is this: You really should be worrying way more about stuff than you do. It just might ensure that on your upcoming trip to Florida, the plane doesn’t crash in the Bermuda Triangle. Just trying to look out for you, buddy.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook. 
