"Boy Blubber! What the heck is that
rolling around back there?"
"What do you mean, Fatman? I don’t hear
anything."
"There’s a thing, rolling back and forth and making
a bunch of noise. There it is again! You don’t hear it? It’s annoying as hell! Wait;
did Thunder Thigh Woman leave her stupid magic maracas in the Fatmobile when we went to see
“The Avengers” the other night? That’s what I keep hearing: maracas or
something rolling around under the seat. Why she feels compelled to bring them
everywhere is a mystery. Magic maracas. She shakes them and bullets bounce off?
That’s what she says. Pffffttt. I’ve never even seen her use them. Next time,
either she leaves them home or she goes solo in that ridiculous thing she
drives and meets us there. What is it, again? An invisible Prius? How the hell
does anyone fight crime in a Prius? Sure, they’re quiet, so they’re stealthy,
but they don’t go faster than what, 65 miles an hour? That’s just not
practical. Besides, it takes her like a half hour to heave herself out of the thing. She really ought to look into something a little bigger. Or get a magic shoe horn. Now that would be practical."
"Uh, Fatman? Are you talking to yourself
again?"
THUMPTHUMP!
"Jeez, Boy Blubber! Are you aiming for pot holes?!"
"Sorry, Fatman. I was focusing on
non-existent maracas."
"Well, at least they’ve stopped making that noise.
Maybe they got stuck under the seat or something."
THUMPTHUMP!
"Jayzusmaryanjoseph, Boy Blubber! I’m going to have to
take the Fatmobile in to the mechanic for a check-up at this rate! And dammit –
the maracas are making crazy noise again!"
"Oops. My bad. Speed bumps. I'm telling you, there is NOTHING
rattling, Fatman! Did you take your meds today?"
"Shut up, Boy Blubber."
I have heard that within each of us there resides a small, still
voice. This little voice, I am told, helps us distinguish right from wrong, supplies
us with the self-assurance to face any situation with confidence, and prods us
with “gut feelings” to determine whether we should welcome that knock at the
door as a wonderful opportunity or slam the door in the face of a total loser.
Yes. I have heard tell of such a thing.
However when those little voices were handed out, I must have been in line at
the Good Humor truck. In MY head, instead of a Helpful Heloise of Happy, there is
a noisy bunch of whackos that ought to be evicted. There is an annoying Greek
chorus of naysayers always at the ready to criticize, critique, belittle, and question.
They are the polar opposite of supportive. If there is a small, still voice in there, it’s been bound, gagged and
locked in a closet. My voices, while not of the Son of Sam variety, still manage
to out-shout most positive thoughts that might come my way. I’m not bat-shit crazy,
but I am weird enough to talk aloud to myself pretty frequently. It’s probably
not normal, but it does make it easier for me to organize my thoughts. (Never
fear, the conversations are usually all
one-sided.)
“The more faithfully you listen to the voices within you, the better you will hear what’s sounding outside.” Dag Hammarskjold, Swedish diplomat, economist, author, and clearly someone who had never met me.
Really, Dag? That’s not very comforting,
I must say.
The voices in my head have been
particularly vocal lately. I embarked on this very public – albeit not widely read – project with the idea that holding myself accountable
to others would provide a little extra incentive to achieve a goal I’ve been
unable to reach on my own for quite some time. The voices did not think this
was a very good idea from the start. “It won’t work”, they said. “You’ll
embarrass yourself”, they warned. “You’re an idiot”, they admonished.
As of last week I’d been so
frustrated with my lack of progress that at times I just wanted to tear out my
hair. Or cry. Or give up entirely, something I would have done in the past. I’d
been doing all the things I should. I’d even been exercising. No Zumba,
but in addition to dog walking and evening track strolls, I added a few miles
of very brisk walking just about every day and even added a few micrometers of
running into the mix. Anyone who knows me has heard me say that I’d never run.
Ever. Unless being chased by aliens. Aliens shooting at me with ray guns. Even
with all this effort, I’d only lost about four pounds. In my ideal world, at
this point in the process I’d have lost fourteen pounds. I was secretly hoping
I’d lose ten. In reality I expected that I would have lost at least seven
pounds. Four was disappointing to say the least.
Enter Dr. Ward, my chubby, German
PCP. I love her, even though she always says to me, “Meesez Hess. You heff
gained too much weight und I do not like your blood pressure.” That makes two
of us, Dr. Ward. I have a thyroid thing, which has been controlled by meds for
the last sixteen years. Because of this, I am supposed have blood drawn every
six months, but I tend to put it off, being beyond
blood and needle-phobic. This time I managed to avoid the lab for about ten
months, which turned out to be a bad move as it seems my thyroid has morphed into a slug. This explains my lack of progress. New meds, and Dr. Ward wants to see me in six weeks. “Und you will heff
lost some weight by then, yah?” One cannot ignore an edict from the elf.
So, I’ve encountered a stumbling
block. Yes, it’s certainly a set-back and progress will be slower, but that doesn’t
mean I should quit. While the Greek chorus in my head rarely takes a day off (“So and so
does it better.” “This house is a mess!” “We don't think you have the skill set for that.”), at least as far
as this project is concerned they can go roll around in the back of the car and
I’ll just ignore them. Annoying bunch of freaks.
