Now, I’m not saying a made-for-TV movie starring Meredith Baxter doesn’t have its own healing powers. (In fact, that woman has gotten me through some very rough times.) But if you’re already down on yourself, lying on the couch watching reenactments of real-life heroism and eating as much ice cream as you can stomach is just a quick fix. Eventually, we all have to put the spoon down and get up off the couch.
When I’m feeling flabby, here’s how I try to look at it: I’ve been on summer vacation with my body, and now it’s time to get back to school! Everyone knows you can’t learn anything at a school that has no teachers. This is why I recommend getting a personal trainer. Now, it sounds very “Hollywood” to have your own personal trainer, but, in fact, they have them at every gym anywhere in the country, maybe even the world, except Sweden. No one in Sweden goes to the gym. They’re all tall and thin and healthy eaters by nature. It’s something about the altitude and the fact that no starches are allowed in the country. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.
The good thing about personal trainers is that they make you feel guilty. Sure, that sounds bad, but think about it. How many times have you seen someone who jogs around your neighborhood every day without fail and thought to yourself, “How do they do it?” The answer is, they feel guilty enough on their own to make themselves do it. Sure, if you asked them, they’d say something like, “Oh, I love to jog.” That’s just ridiculous. No one loves to jog, it’s painful and boring. People just feel like they have to. Getting a personal trainer is like buying that same guilty feeling, but with the extra bonus of disappointing someone besides yourself if you flake out. You practically want to work out. Practically.
I used to be the worst when it came to physical fitness, until my psychic introduced me to Rico, my personal trainer. We’ve been through a lot these past two years, but I’m all the healthier for it.
Not only did Rico guide me through the awkward beginning stages of my new fitness plan, but he also helped me with my poor-nutrition problems. I remember when I first told Rico that my weakness is coffee ice cream. You’d think I’d said I like to eat hundred-dollar bills.
“You can’t eat that! Why would you want to eat that?”
This is the weirdest question I have ever been asked. I actually considered taking the time to explain to him why ice cream is so good. How could he not know? Then I remembered we were on my dime.
“It’s delicious,” I wheezed, trying to finish my fourth sit-up. (Trainers will always try to have deep, meaningful conversations with you while you’re exercising. It gets your heart rate up.)
“Well, if you’re gonna do that, you should have coffee frozen yogurt. It’s half the fat and calories of ice cream.” So I bought it and I tried it.
At our next session, I brought it up during my quad presses. “Hey, I had some of that coffee frozen yogurt. You know what else I could do instead of eating coffee ice cream? I could chew on a tan-colored towel.” I thought I’d really got him on that one, but he just increased the weight on my quad press machine.
Rico was always giving me tips on how to lose weight faster.
“Drink more water,” he’d say, doing sit-ups while hanging upside down.
“I do drink a lot of water,” I’d reply. “Ice cream makes me thirsty.”
These were the things I’d say to Rico to get him all riled up. He was hard to rile, though, especially when he was upside down.
Clearly, Rico had no understanding of my love of food. There are people who are like that. They don’t really care about what they eat or when or how much or if they can get seconds. They just eat what’s good for them. Who are these people?
Rico told me in all sincerity one day, “You can go to any restaurant. Just don’t order bread, potatoes, rice, fatty meats, dessert, or wine.”
“Let’s see, that leaves water and carrots. Sounds delicious.”
I don’t think he heard me. I was about fifteen feet away from him and had just caught the medicine ball he’d thrown to me. Well, at me. And hard—not the way a boy should throw to a girl. But that was Rico.
“You can eat whatever you want, just eat less of it. You like pizza?”
“Yeah! Let’s go get some pizza!” I dropped the medicine ball and ran to get my jacket.
“No, I mean, if you like it you can have it. Just have one slice.”
I don’t think I’ve ever had just one slice of pizza. Unless it was one of those really big slices you buy one at a time. But those are easily three slices of regular pizza in one huge slice shape. I think the only way I could ever eat just one slice of pizza is if I had the one slice and then knocked myself out with a rock.
I wanted to quit. I wanted to go home. I wanted Meredith Baxter to take me away. Suddenly, I felt rage boil up in my belly. I felt the injustice of my genes. Why wasn’t I born in Sweden like everyone else? Why did I need some jerk to stand next to me, counting my “reps” and telling me to feel the burn? I felt the burn all right and the burn made me want to punch my trainer in the face. And then, as if by magic, Rico appeared in front of me wearing headgear and holding up two large, red padded gloves.
“Are you ready for some kickboxing, baby?”
Oh, I was ready.
I have had many trainers since Rico, but I still miss him sometimes. If it weren’t for him, I never would’ve gotten into kickboxing. And I’ll always appreciate the fact that he didn’t sue me. I did hit him pretty hard. Rico was a good sport. But what could he say to me? He was the one who got me so strong in the first place.
Smartishness
Do you feel insecure because you keep getting the nagging feeling that you’re not that smart? Well, I’ve got good news for you, my friend. You have no need to be insecure. That nagging feeling is absolutely right on target. You are not that smart. But I have more good news for you. You are also not alone!
Let’s face it: We’re all stupid. Each and every one of us. Oh sure, some people went to college and got degrees—big whoop! I could have done that. I stayed in school plenty long. As long as the law said I had to.
You see, scientists have proven that we only use 10% of our brain. And that’s on a good day. 10%! Let that figure roll around in your head a bit. You’ve got room enough—after all, you’re only using 10% of it. It’s just not that much, is it? I mean, imagine what we could accomplish if we used the other 60%.
Getting older doesn’t help the ol’ noggin either; let me tell you that. And I know I’m getting older because I just used the expression “ol’ noggin.” I’m not sure if it’s happening to everyone, but I’m slower than I used to be. My mind is definitely slowing down. Maybe it’s on a little vacation. Our brains need downtime just like our bodies. We sleep at night so our bodies can rest for a period. But our brains keep going with dreams. They never have a break. I would like my brain to cut down on the dreams and get back on the job for me during the day.
As I get older I’m losing my vocabulary too. It’s not funny. I can’t find words. Not even big words—just simple words. I’ll start talking and I can’t access a word I need. For instance, like…um…see, even now I can’t think of the word. I’m not sure what’s happening to me. It’s like there’s a Bermuda Triangle inside my brain, swallowing up all the words I’ve kept in there for forty-five years. Not that I spoke the first year, but I know I listened to words. I’m sure I absorbed things like, “She’s wet again. You can change her.” Or, “Boy, she’s a fat baby. When’s she gonna get some hair?” Or, “I sure hope she’s got some talent ’cause she’s not much to look at.” Or, “That Studebaker sure is a good car. I’m investing all of our savings in that company.”
“No, darling, let’s leave it in asbestos.”
“How ’bout we do half and half?”
“That’s a great idea.”
And I’m sure you’ve experienced this one: You know when you’ve forgotten what you’re going to say even as it’s coming out of your mouth? You’re gabbing away to a friend, “Hey, you know what…
? What was I gonna say? What was I gonna say?” Now you’re forcing your friend to participate somehow. “Um, we were talking about floor lamps?”
“No…”
“Mariah Carey?”
“No!”
Suddenly it’s like you’re playing The $10,000 Pyramid. “Uh, things that taste like chicken? Things a monkey would wear!”
“Yes!! That’s right, we were talking about tiny hats.”
It’s terrible when you forget what you’re going to say after two words, but what’s worse than that, really, is forgetting what you’re going to say when you’ve been talking for a while. You know, like when you’re at a dinner party and a whole group of people are talking, discussing some heavy subject matter, and you don’t really have an opinion on it. Then suddenly you think you do, so you jump right in there to share your opinion, and you realize you’ve actually got a pretty good opinion to share! When your friends hear this opinion, they’re going to be blown away by how smart you are. They had no idea that you were so smart, and they will be shocked and impressed that you would come up with such an interesting point of view. And you start congratulating yourself, and suddenly, since you’re feeling so good and you’re celebrating too soon, you completely forget the point you were trying to make. And you’re still talking. And they’re looking at you like you don’t know what you’re talking about, and you don’t, but you can’t let them know that. So you just keep talking, praying that the point will come back to you. And not only does the point not come back, but now you’ve completely forgotten the subject everybody else was talking about. You really start sweating. You loosen your tie—if you’re a man or Diane Keaton or Avril Lavigne—and then you try to jump out of it by saying any sort of generic statement that comes to mind. “Well, six of one, half dozen of the other. It’s a slippery slope, my friend. Teach a man to fish. And, you know, there’s no ‘I’ in team…Is there any more Merlot?”
I don’t remember anything from school either. I don’t know where Borneo is. Or South Dakota. I mean, I have a pretty good idea where it is in relation to North and East Dakota, but otherwise I’m lost. And I wouldn’t know the difference between a sine and a cosine if they jumped in front of me naked in the middle of the street.
Here’s all I remember of the Declaration of Independence: “When in the course of human events, bippity boppity boop.” I have no idea what a conjunction is. I don’t even know how I thought of the word “conjunction.”
But even though I may not be book-learnin’ smart, I still consider myself to be street smart (meaning, I think, that I usually know what street I’m on). And common sense–wise, I think I’m pretty smart too. Yet every single time I drive my Toyota Land Cruiser into an underground parking lot, I duck because the ceiling doesn’t seem high enough and by ducking I’m helping my car make it. Plus, if by some chance we scrape the ceiling, my head will be protected.
Or let’s say I’m walking out of my house, and I’ve just had a banana. I have my banana peel in one hand and my car keys in the other. I throw my car keys in the trash and walk out with my banana peel. The other day I found my iron in the freezer. And the only reason I found it is that I was looking for my sunglasses.
Sometimes I get a little down when I realize I’m never going to be as smart as I’d like to be. So I’ve come up with a few little tricks to make me feel better. You’re welcome to try them out if you feel like it. I mean, you bought this book—you deserve that much. If, however, you’re borrowing this book from a friend, I’d suggest you give your friend a few bucks first. Or, better yet, send me a few bucks.
One way, I find, to start feeling better about myself is to take a good look at really smart people I admire—people who have really accomplished something or seem to be extremely successful in the world. I really take a hard look at them, examine them. How did they do it? What do they have that I don’t? What makes them so special? Who do they think they are? They’re stupid! They think they’re so cool. Well, they’re not! And, presto, by making somebody look worse, magically you look better.
But even though the above method might make you look good to yourself, it’s not going to do diddly (or P. Diddly, which I believe is the current expression) as far as the rest of the world sees you. For that, you need to be the next best thing to actually being smart. Which is, of course, pretending to be smart. How do you do that, you ask, scratching your head, a quizzical expression on your face, perhaps a long blade of grass between your teeth?
For one, big words make other people think you’re smart. Remember, long words are better than short words, even if it’s a bunch of short words. Here’s a word you can use: kitchenette—it’s a small kitchen. For instance, “Oh, you have such a nice small kitchen” is not nearly as impressive as “Oh, you’ve got a lovely kitchenette, don’t you, now?” I added “don’t you, now” to sound a little bit English. They all seem smart. If you can do a good English accent you don’t even have to use long words. It’s almost better not to—then you could just come off snobby.
Another way to appear smarter than you actually are is to have a few trivial facts at your disposal. Once you’ve memorized these facts, just sprinkle them into your ordinary conversation like…sprinkles, I guess. Here are a few that I use:
Telemachus—in Greek mythology, the son of Odysseus and Penelope, who helped his father kill Penelope’s suitors. I’m not sure how you’ll use this. So never mind.
Oh, how about zwitterion—in physics, an ion carrying both a positive and a negative charge, thus forming an electrically neutral molecule. Example: “Oh look, there’s a zwitterion.”
Albertus Seba was an apothecary. He was born in 1665 in the East Frisian town of Etzel. I have no idea what an apothecary is, or where the heck Frisia is. So, if I’m asked, I usually just point at something in the distance, then run in the opposite direction.
You can always try, “Alpacas communicate by humming and spitting.” Then again, so does my grandmother.
And what if none of these methods work? What if you can no more pull off pretending to be smart than actually being smart? Well, there’s no need to get depressed. Maybe smartness or smartyness or smartynessness just isn’t for you. Which is okay, because if you look around, you’ll see that people who are not smart have achieved success in every realm of endeavor. Look at politics; look at sports; look at who’s on TV and in the movies. You’re not going to see a lot of smarties. Look at me. I’m not all that smart and yet the accountant who I authorized to take care of all my finances told me that I made literally hundreds of dollars last year.
Feel better? Good. That’s what I’m here for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I seem to only be using 8% of my brain right now. I’m going to go on a little expedition to look for the other 2%. If I’m not back in a couple of days, don’t worry. Something shiny must have distracted me.
The Things That Are
Bothering Me This Week
Last week in therapy, I was in the middle of a story when my therapist, Dr. Brandon Muflin, interrupted me. “Helen,” he said.
“It’s Ellen.”
“Helen, Ellen, when you get down to it, is there really any difference?”
“Well, actually…”
“I don’t want to get into your constant need to correct people. I’ve realized what your real problem is. You spend too much time in our sessions talking about yourself.”
“But isn’t that the point of therapy?”
“In fact, no.”
Then Dr. Muflin (I know, don’t certain people’s names make you hungry?) suggested that instead of coming in each week and “yammering away” about the things that are bothering me, I should write them down—make a list of annoyances. He would then spend our therapy sessions reading my list while I did chores around his house. “Much like Daniel-san did for Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid,” he added, trying to convince me.
Well, since Dr. Muflin’s the one who is three credits shy of getting his B.A. from a partially accredited universit
y, and not me, I decided to take his advice. So, without any further ado—okay, maybe with just a little ado—ado, here are:
The 10 Things That are
Bothering Me This Week
Golden Delicious apples. Where do they get off naming their apples that? That’s a little immodest, isn’t it? What if I called myself “Incredibly Attractive Ellen”?
The way the receptionist at the dentist tries to book your next appointment six months in advance. “How’s 8:45 A.M. on October the 5th?” I want to say, “Nope, that’s no good. I’m shopping for groceries at 8:50 A.M. that day.”
Businesses that offer to make up for poor service or poor products with a voucher for more free poor service or poor products. “If you’re not satisfied with your meal, your next unsatisfying meal here is FREE!”
Car lot ads that brag, “Our sales manager screwed up! We’ve got too many cars and they must go. His mistake is your lucky break.” How does this guy keep his job? Every year he screws up and orders too many cars. I don’t want to buy from a dealership that allows this degree of incompetence.
The salesman at the big electronics store who tells you how well-made and dependable the TV is that he’s trying to sell you, and that he’s never had any customers who have experienced any problems with it. Then, when you get to the register, he tries to sell you the extended warranty.
My masseuse, who always says, “Boy, you’re really tight today.” Just once I’d like to hear her say, “Wow, your muscles are incredibly loose and relaxed. Why are you even here?”
When I’m standing at a cash register and the cashier says, “Ten twenty-five. Got a quarter?” I want to say, “No, I’m sorry. Let me find a cash register somewhere so I can get change and I’ll be right back.” OR, if I tell them I don’t have the exact change, they say “No problem.” I want to say, “I never thought there was a problem. You’re the cashier…. This is a cashregister. Making change is your job. I didn’t expect a problem.”