According to psychoanalysts, astrologers, and the scientifically uninspired, January 17th is officially the saddest day of the year. The holidays have drawn to a close, and we’re currently in the throes of a new Ice Age. I am sitting in my usual post-Christmas stupor, trying to make myself dispose of the last remnants of gift wrapping and decorations. Though my post-traumatic-holiday-syndrome has rendered me comatose, I haven’t registered the gloom.
In spite of the fact that as an inert wad of waddlesome bulk, I seem to have lost my ability for linear movement, I have been making regular runs to the malls for sales that will ensure my family will be well-indulged for the coming 2011 Christmas season. (Only 360 shopping days left.) Forget minimalism! Oh, the whole idea is repugnant, but making preparations for the annual debacle of debauchery, is a year-long imperative.
As we bid farewell to the last year and the last decade, there are some things I’ll miss – namely, a few vital organs and a whole lotta “perky.” It seems “perky” is the first casualty of time, gravity and unrestrained over-indulgence. I regret this, but I’m not sad.
I don’t understand why the laws of gravity have to be immutable. I don’t understand a lot of things about Natural Law.
1. Why can’t our best parts spontaneously generate? (That is, without surgical intervention.)
2. Why don’t our muscles spontaneously levitate, prolonging our ability to bend and snap!?
3. How come getting INTO the lotus position is so much easier than getting OUT of the lotus position?
4. Why is my anatomy in a perpetual state of revolt…which in itself is revolting.
I remember with fondness the time I possessed a figure that eagerly popped to attention the moment I barked a command. Talk about wow factor! It was Seratonyn ziplined straight to the brain! But nowadays, at the mere suggestion that a fleshy portion of my burly immensity re-locate, there’s zero response, except for the sound of muffled laughter from my personal portly plump-pockets. I actually used to have hard lines and right angles. These days I just hide my porky sludge within the confines of my burqa. It’s all so ghoulish. (Just to clarify, that doesn’t make me sad…merely despondent.)
Of course, I know it’s the law of natural consequences. And those laws really are immutable. I’ve invested an entire quadrant of 2010 roasting small farm animals and pounding down homemade holiday fudge, ratifying myself as an apex predator. Short term memory loss causes me to forget that all calories and no activity make Joan look like a mutant crash-test dummy in drag, thus debunking the theory that mortaring on multiple layers of mascara can disguise flagrant physical atrophy.
But I’ve reached the tipping point. I am committed to remaining upright. I am determined to over-come my slothful infirmity. I pledge to channel a higher courage. I hereby resolve to repel the “sacred chow,” unfriend the dessert bar, and unleash my inner divinity.
When I hear the call of the nosebag, I will choose to feed my brain instead, to remain intellectually agile. Of course, this could prove problematic, suffering as I do from formal thought disorder. That doesn’t make me a mental defective, but I’m not exactly numbered among the Seven Sages of the Ancient World. (In point of fact, I just discovered that the hippocampus is actually a part of the brain and not a school for really large animals of the Serengeti.)
Sometimes I wish there were some kind of temptation repellent…other than self-restraint. Please, not self-restraint. Benign neglect does not qualify as a diet plan. Sadly, being a carnivore-cum-excess has confined my fashion selections to variations of the inflatable toga.
And speaking of excess, I understand that certain word warriors have compiled an inventory of overused terms they determined should be deleted from common vernacular. I was rather intrigued with several of the choices, because I have not yet had an opportunity to incorporate them into my writing. There were 14 words or phrases to be banished. The list included “viral,” “fail,” “wow factor,” “epic,” “Facebook” and “Google” used as verbs, and Sarah Palin’s hybrid, “refudiate.” Of course, I will abide by the dictates of the vocab Nazis, but I do regret that these amendments were sanctioned before I could sufficiently employ them into unspiringly boring clichés. (And why isn’t “special” #1 on the short list?) Pity.
I, myself, have an inventory of words that I am particularly of. (Yes, I know. I just ended a sentence with a preposition.) I admit mia culpa. I will seek absolution, reclamation, restitution. Actually, all of the above are carved on the stone tablets of my favorite words. Here are some others:
Aren’t they special? So many words are transient, momentary, vacuous and sophomoric. Those on my list are solid, powerful and potent…with roots that originate from Latin…a stellar lexicon blood line.
The best, most authentic literature is built upon the most reliable, omnicompetent words and expressions to convey meaning. (Ironically, harsh language can often have greater impact than even Cicero’s orations.)
It would tax, however, even Webster’s Dictionary’s vast vocabulary to adequately express my contempt for cancer. Language is powerless and inadequate. This disease is a prolific and stupendous plague too evil for hell itself. It is the feckless mutation of a ghoulish curse of Hades, and its proliferation thwarts the fecundity of every strata of mankind. My deepest desire would be to expunge the word “cancer” from our minds and records, along with its fiendish coefficients from the murky depths of Beelzebub like “malignant,” “tumor,” etc.
I will celebrate the day with feasting when we can eradicate any linguistic evidence of this scourge’s existence.
Booyah! That was cathartic! (Another favorite word.) Catharsis is good, because Dennis will have his blood re-drawn on Thursday, January 20th. I welcome the emotional release. His latest numbers were elevated, so this follow-up is just precautionary. We are not worried. Concerned, yes. Worried, no. And right now, I’m exercising self-restraint to resist the urge to call upon my second language, advanced expletive, for maximum impact. It is, however, testing my patience and frustration quotient.
I am not making any resolutions for 2011. My plans for the year following Thursday’s blood draw are three-fold:
1. Get elective, recreational frontal lobotomy.
2. Obtain advance degree in linguistics online from the local hippocampus.
3. Be happy.