I'm Not Falling For It
I’m always extra careful not to fall on an escalator. Those things are scary as all get-out. Maybe my subconscious is blocking a memory of a tragic blankie entanglement. Maybe a mishap watching the viewing angle change as a girl in a mini-skirt went up in the opposite direction I rode down.
However, I think the real reason I’m so scared of falling down an escalator is because for reasons beyond human comprehension, someone decided to make a set of moving stairs out of the sharpest, jaggedest metal they could find. Hold a block of Parmesan up to an escalator and you’ll end up with a spaghetti topping. God forbid you fell down this gauntlet of steel, you’d lose a limb.
The only way an escalator could be more dangerous is if they let the ‘stairs’ rust. “Well Mr. Reiling, as you can see you’ve lost your leg and broken your arm. What you can’t see, you also have tetanus.” In fact, a rusty escalator would make a nice torture device for the next ‘Saw’ movie.
I was watching a parade one day. It was one of those ‘awareness’ parades. You know the kind. They try to make everyone more ‘aware’ of things, instead of going the extra step of actually discovering and then advocating a solution. It’s like saying “Here’s a tremendous problem. You deal with it.”
Anyway, I felt my level of awareness reaching Zen-like proportions when all of a sudden someone in the parade fell. The next person apparently didn’t realize the parade’s goal was ‘awareness,’ because he was completely unaware of the obstacle he was closing in on and subsequently fell over the first faller. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but that really helped raise my awareness of the issue they were trying to raise awareness about – the safety of our city’s streets.
But it didn’t stop there. I also became aware of the weather – a brisk fall day. I began to ponder the reason for the season – leaves fall, rain falls, snow falls, and if it gets icy enough pedestrians fall. I better remember to set my clock – ‘spring ahead/fall back’ – good, an extra hour of sleep. This was, by far, the most successful ‘awareness’ parade I’ve ever been to.
. . . It's a Question of When
I hate it when someone asks me what time it is. When I'm curious about the time a quick glance will do – 10:40. When it's someone else's inquiry, I feel there really needs to be a series of follow-up questions I need to ask in order to give the asker the information they're looking for:
"Do you want the exact, to the minute time or are you a 'rounder'?"
"If you are a 'rounder,' would you prefer I round up, down or to the nearest 5?"
"Or, do you round to the nearest 10? 15? Half-hour?"
There's a lot of pressure involved in telling someone else what time it is. I'd hate to make this person too early for an appointment, forcing them to waste their valuable time waiting for the appointment to begin. Or, worse yet, make them late for a very important appointment. I'd feel very guilty if someone didn't get a job because my preferred time-telling method made them late to their interview. Or, is it a social engagement and they want to be fashionably late? How late do they consider fashionable?
Anyway, after all is said and done, after my brain has run through this series of questions and I've been staring at my watch for a minute-and-a-half, the inquirer usually thinks I don't know how to tell time in the first place, and my credibility for time-telling is that of Paris Hilton making political commentary.
What makes this situation even worse is that the asker can tell I wear a digital watch. Not because I can't read the other kind, I just want to see if there are any times that make a funny word when read upside-down.
Exercise: The Ercise You're No Longer Committed To
Throughout college I exercised by doing 12-ounce curls. If you think about it, that’s a dumb joke, because each rep would be less than the first. So as it turns out, I wasn’t getting as much exercise as I thought.
So I joined a gym, and I still have a membership. I still don’t exercise, but now I pay someone not to. I don’t look at my gym membership as wasted money, though. With all the attractive women in spandex, my heart rate still reaches target marks.
Exercise would be a lot better without all the sweat - it stinks, it ruins your clothes and it makes the Playstation controller slippery.
Back at the gym, a finely-hewn woman looks spectacular with a bit of sheen on her, but I could do without the dark wet streak on the back of my gym shorts.
When he used to go for a run, President Bush jogged with Secret Service agents. I’m sure we all remember pictures of Clinton in his sweats, surrounded by agents. The agents were there to keep Bill safe. In Dubya’s case, though, it’s to make sure he doesn’t get lost, or run into a place he can’t escape from, like Iraq.
Had he been elected, Kerry would have been surrounded by agents to make sure he doesn’t trip when his foot flew in his mouth. I don’t know about you, but this is my preference. That’s exercising your right to vote.
It’s good that KFC, Wendy’s and soon BK will be eliminating trans fats in their food. That way, my overpriced health insurance can pay out more benefits for the 300-pounder in front of me in line who orders the biggest burger and the extra-large bucket of fries. However, they’re trying to lose weight, so they drink a Diet Coke and go home to return to their fitness regimen: “Sit-and-be-Fit” on PBS. That’s an exercise in futility.
They say that when a man ‘feels Japanese’ he burns as many calories as climbing four flights of stairs. Learn a lesson from me, though, your wife won't appreciate being called the "Stairmaster." That’s exercising your better judgment.