Motivational Writings by Scott "Q" Marcus, Recovering Prefectionist

Too Many To-Do Lists: A Conversation

2012-01-11T16:46:00.000-08:00

“Yay! I am finally moving forward on my goals for the year!”

“Good for you! So, what are these great plans you have?”

“Well, I always make resolutions and then I give up. So, I did some research and I found out that experts say if you’re really serious, you have to write them down. So I got organized. I got all these ‘to-do’ lists, each broken down by priority, category, and deadline. And because we’re more likely to change when we focus on the rewards instead of the work, I’ve listed them in this column, ranking them from one to ten. See?”

“Wow! Those are sure a lot of ‘to-do’ lists. You’re going to get a lot done, huh?”

“Sure am! Let’s look at my ‘health’ list. I want to lose 30 pounds, so I devised a strategy. It’s right here. Step one, clean the kitchen of temptation; you know, get rid of the junk food. Then, go to the store and stock up on range-free, organic, all-natural, non-processed, low fat, low-sodium, high-fiber foods. I’m also buying some of those inert non-reactive, toxin-free pots and pans that let you cook healthier. To keep track of my food, I write down everything I eat in this journal over here, including recording the calorie count, as well as fat, fiber, and protein grams. But, I’m not done! Every Sunday, the family meets to plan out the entire week’s meals in advance, which we goes on this list. That way we have a proper healthy dinner every night. What do you think so far?”

“You sure did think of everything. But at the risk of being practical, how are you going to afford all that?”

“No problem! See, on this register are our financial goals. I meet with an accountant, bookkeeper, and planner every week so we can track each penny we spend, which we record over here. Then I categorize and sub-categorize them — with 64 tags and sub-tags — so I can produce up to 32 daily budget reports. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Oh my! Won’t that take away from time with your family?”

“We thought of that too; we’ve scheduled nightly, very efficient, family meetings. Each person is allotted 15 minutes to say what her or she did that day, what their plans are for tomorrow, ask for help — and of course, discuss our feelings. Then we each make our lists, have a group hug, and away we go. You know, experts agree that family time brings you closer. See, it’s all on this agenda.”

“Yeah, nothing says closeness like family time via stopwatch. Um, do you really think the baby needs a full 15 minutes?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll make a note to change that.”

“I’m very impressed by all this planning. However, I do have one question.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Where are you going to find the time to do all this? I mean — just saying — it seems like a pretty full itinerary, and you already run such a busy life. Something has to give to add in all these activities.”

“You know, you might be right. I hadn’t thought of that. What do you think I should do?”

“Maybe you need to take a look at some of the things you’re doing right now that you first need to stop; you know, so you’ll have some time to do all these new things.”

“Hmmmm. That makes sense. I’ll start a new list right away.”

Avoiding Family Drama to be Healthier and Happier

2011-12-28T13:55:00.000-08:00

Not all family reunions are, well, shall we say, “familial.”

Despite the two-dimensional, everything-works-out-in-the-end, sitcom model of American life, some relatives are just not cut from the same cloth. Gatherings can more resemble armed camps across a kitchen table, rather than a joyous reunion of long-parted siblings longing to catch up on the past year’s goings-on.

Alex, her oldest brother, was always hell-bent on proving how much he knew, accuracy be damned. He over-talked, was excessively loud, and foisted his I-could-be-with-someone-more-important-than-you attitude on everyone from the moment he strutted into a room.

She was yin to his yang; righting the “injustice,” alone she would step into the fray and engage. Of course, this further amplified the conflict; but it drove her nuts to let him push his way around, ignoring everyone else’s needs.

This year, however, she would not be sucked into his dark drama vortex. Since her divorce, she was working on accepting things as they were rather than how they “should” be. Therapy, a fitness program, and losing 33 pounds; was allowing her to reclaim her life. She would not let her boorish brother steal that away — not tonight, not again.

Mustering a Herculean effort, she engaged Alex in small talk only, and the family reunion fared better than usual. He jabbed, she sidestepped; he blew hard, she refused to blow back.

Once the clan dispersed, sans spectacle, the quiet of the house collected around her, and she replayed the events in her head. “I should have told him off! He thinks he’s the only one who knows anything! What gives him the right?” Her inner dialog grew more bellicose and she pondered all the things she could have said — but didn’t.

She might be getting in touch with her “better self,” but she was far from “perfect” and she realized how agitated she still was. Sure, she kept the peace, but at what price?

The kitchen clock chimed midnight; yet she was as awake as if she had downed a convenience store’s inventory of energy drinks. Not knowing how to disperse that excess agitation, she found herself nibbling from a pyramid of dark, cubed, walnut fudge blocks that graced the center of the table. As the sweet texture melted in her mouth, she lost track of Alex, floating away on a cloud of sugary goodness.

“I really need to stop eating,” she thought, while reaching for another chocolate block. “It’s wreaking havoc on my diet.” Yet she had to admit, nothing soothed the image of Alex like chocolate.

She could stop right this second, take back control, and be angry; or chow down on fudge mountain, feel great, and look like a blimp. THAT would sure give Alex something to crow about, wouldn’t it?

That’s all it took.

Impulsively, she grabbed the plate, rushed to the sink, and poured into it a cascade of fudge bricks. The thought scampered across her mind to reach in and save a few, but she refused to give in and — while still empowered — brushed the remaining cubes into the drain.

The dilemma remained however, how to deal with her pent-up tension?

She thought of Alex and pictured his smug mug. She imagined his condescending tone, “Now, now, don’t be so emotional.” Her blood boiled again.

Reaching for the garbage disposal switch on the wall, she emphatically, dramatically flipped it, and listened with satisfaction to the grinding from beneath the sink.

“Not this time!” she said as she quieted the racket. “You don’t control me anymore."

She slept amazingly well.

Dear Santa - A List We Could ALL use for the New Year

2011-12-21T13:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa…

There are some things I’d like for the New Year. I know that’s not within your usual bailiwick, and you’re probably pooped from a long sleigh ride, but if you don’t mind…

First, please give me good health.

My body carries me faithfully from before my birth until my last days. I abuse it and overuse it. I overfeed it and undersleep it. Yet rarely do I appreciate it. Nonetheless, it usually works amazingly well. It doesn't seem to smile as much as I'd like (and it's not quite the size I wanted) but in all modesty, it's pretty cool.

My eyes can enjoy the magnificent pink of a rich sunset. My nose can inhale the deep, full scent of a spicy stew simmering slowly on a blustery winter afternoon. My ears perk up to the reassuring tap-tap-tap of light rain on my roof in the middle of the night. And the touch of a lover's hand on my skin, can in a moment, calm and excite me at the same time.

Remind me that whatever else I have is worth nothing without my health. When I bend without pain or breathe deeply without effort, make me smile. Let me remember that this is the truest, purest blessing of all. Through this miracle of life, I experience all the universe has to offer.

Secondly, please strengthen my connection to family.

There are those who came before me; and there are those for whom I am responsible whom I will never meet. Even so, we are connected. In that chain, I am a vital link, the entirety of all that has gone before me and the bedrock of generations still unborn. Each in that string is a part of me as I am of them. We are all of the same stuff.

Through the ages and across the miles; today, yesterday, and tomorrow; we will guide each other when we are lost, and we will pick each other up when we fall. Everything I do reflects upon my ancestors and shapes my children of future offspring. I am inextricably connected across time. Remind me each day to take time for my family.

Teach me to be a better friend.

Along my path, I have picked up lasting gems of beauty, some in the oddest and most unlikely places. They vary in color, shape, and age. I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but some have faded from memory, yet they all share an inner beauty and spirit to which I find myself drawn.

For each, give me respect. Fill my heart with love at their sight. Make sure I return to them what they so willingly lend to me. Remind me to tell them more often that their lives have brought wonder and joy to mine.

Lastly — but maybe most importantly — give me faith, especially when I feel weak.

At such times, point out I am not alone; my focus has merely narrowed. Remind me that, as my mother used to say, all things work toward the “greater good.” That which seems so bent and twisted in the immediate will soon straighten out. Give me patience as it does.

I guess, in re-reading my list, I really already have these. I forget. So, if there’s a way you can send reminders, I’d appreciate it. Let me notice a moment of quiet in the midst of a noisy day, paint for me a rainbow against the darkness of a late afternoon sky, or let me overhear the elated giggle of a baby girl overjoyed with the simplicity of a bright red balloon.

Be patient please, it sometimes takes a little while before I listen. I’ll work on that.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CRP of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. His first five years of these columns are now available on Amazon at http://amzn.to/StrivingBooks

Special note: I originally wrote this piece in a longer form in 2002. If you would like to see the original, you can go to http://www.scottqmarcus.com/temporary/Holidays/santaletter.htm

Is Pizza Really a Vegetable?

2011-11-23T13:22:00.000-08:00

A “meme” is a basically a “thought virus.” In the same fashion that influenza infects one person, replicates itself and then spreads to another, eventually infecting large numbers of a population; memes follow the same process through the consciousness of our culture, affecting (or “infecting” if you wish) the way we react or behave. Unlike an “urban legend,” which is a widespread false story wrongly accepted as fact; or a “fad,” which is a behavior that explodes in popularity and quickly dies; a meme is more akin to a belief or a concept that affect our view of society — and therefore how we react to it.

As illustration, a recent diet meme was “carbs are bad, protein is good.” This spread so quickly and deeply to the point that some honestly believed that scarfing down a one pound bacon cheeseburger — providing you avoided the bun — was a healthy method of dropping weight. This misguided all-protein diet meme spawned several variations of fad diets. Currently, although the meme might remain, those diets are mostly debunked.

Today’s column had its impetus because I was (once again) irritated with an action by our “leaders.” In this instance, the meme currently winding its way through conventional wisdom is that Congress has defined pizza as a vegetable. The underlying logic (if indeed it can be classified as such) was that since that a certain amount of tomato paste equates to a “vegetable,” and whereas there is more than said amount on pizzas; they too would therefore be classified as vegetables.

I imagined children being told by their parents, “If you don’t eat your pizza, you won’t get any dessert,” or seeing the old food pyramid returning with “pesto-chicken pizza” or “double pepperoni” on par with carrots and lettuce. (We can only wish.)

Umbrage redlining, I sought facts (because unlike some cable news networks, I wish to be accurate) and discovered that although the story is untrue, it is not made up out of whole cloth. What essentially happened is the U.S. Department of Agriculture wanted to increase standards so a half-cup of tomato paste would count as a vegetable serving, instead of the current one-eighth cup. In an over-simplified nutshell (which I fear might also soon be classified as a vegetable), in bowing to the wishes of large agricultural companies — and against the wishes of the Administration — Congress opted to maintain the status quo. Therefore, two tablespoons of tomato paste remain the virtual nutritional equivalent of one half-cup of broccoli, green beans or any other vegetable in a school lunch. (In fairness, Congress did not however re-classify pizza to be a vegetable.)

Although somewhat relieved to hear the complete story, it is still disquieting.

Childhood obesity is at all-time high. The current generation of youngsters might indeed grow up to need as much health care in their middle age as my generation will require in its old age, adding yet additional pressure to an already overly-expensive, ineffective health care system, and lowering the quality of life for two generations (plus burdening those following behind). Would it really hurt to teach them to munch on a carrot or celery stick now and then?

We cannot regulate what people eat, nor am I an advocate of doing so; but — tomato paste? Really? This too has become a political battle line? If we cannot stop bickering long enough to help develop standards of what we feed our kids, it will be a short leap before chips are equated with bread and wine is considered a fruit.

Who is more stubborn - cats or us?

2011-11-09T16:08:00.000-08:00

My wife, Mary Ann, is one of the most nurturing individuals you will ever have the pleasure to meet. She is also a passionate advocate for animals. More specifically, one might refer to her as “one of those cat ladies.” I personally would not do that as the result would be that I would spend my evenings in solitary. (Of course, she would spend the night-time with our cats, proving my point. Yet, I think the irony would be wasted on her.)

We had three cats.

Sadly, “K.C.,” the elderly matriarch passed away early this year, leaving the two identical ginger cats, “Tiger” and “Motor.” (Let’s be clear; I did not choose their names, okay?) These “orange boys” are “inside cats,” because our vet said that the best way to ensure your kitties lead a long, healthy, purr-fect life is to not them prowl the streets. As nimble and agile as felines might be, they don’t understand the concept of automobiles.

Within our fenced backyard dwells a third, Birman, cat. She (we think she’s a “she” but we’re not sure) unexpectedly appeared six years ago, and although she has departed for short periods, she always returns. Exhibiting no fear of us, she’s incredibly affectionate, so we think she was abandoned. Due to her silky, strikingly beautiful, long, silver, and black fur, we call her “Smokey.” (I wanted “Velvet” but was over-ruled.)

Since K.C. passed, my wife has wanted to integrate Smokey with the orange boys, especially as the weather turns harsh. Last weekend, she was finally able to convince Smokey to come inside. To help her feel safe (as well as let the other animals acclimate) Smokey stayed in an unused upstairs bedroom, replete with bed, food, water, litter box, and a screened — but slightly open — window, allowing her the ability to survey the neighborhood from on high. After Smokey was given the good-health go-ahead by the vet, we would begin the process of assimilation.

Until the appointment, my wife checked on her regularly, refreshed her needs, and — in general — kept her company. All was proceeding according to plan until yesterday morning. Upon entering Smokey’s room, she discovered a Smokey-sized hole torn in our screen. During the previous night, Smokey pulled a Steve McQueen and escaped back to the “wild,” only to return to our backyard later in the day as smug as if nothing had happened. She was as affectionate as ever, and despite rejecting the four-star hospitality we had so graciously provided, was only interested in her standard nightly canned food repast.

“Why would Smokey prefer to live in the rain and cold instead of in a warm house?” my wife wondered.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” I granted. “However, if you look at it from her point of view, outside is all she knows. Frosty nights and wet grounds might not be pleasant, and she’d probably even enjoy being inside once she got used to it, but sometimes you stay with the discomfort you know rather than take the time to learn about something better.”

I’m not a cat; that’s probably evident. But, at least in that respect, humans are not that far removed. How often do we pass up the option for “better,” obstinately remaining with “same?” Even after accepting things can be better, we still have to shake up long-held behaviors, and usually, we decide it’s not worth the effort. So, on we plod…

With enough tuna to keep her belly full, and a warm fireplace by which she can lay, Smokey might have made the switch. We, on the other hand, can be a lot more stubborn.

Observations after an accident

2011-11-02T15:17:00.000-07:00

This is my 312th column, putting a period on six years. These thoughts I share every week do not have a “mission statement” or goal per se; however, I always aspire to use the privilege of this space (and your time) to inspire, uplift, and to be supportive in whatever way I can. If I am also able to generate a laugh or two in the process, that makes it all the better. However, whatever my topic, I attempt to tie these dispatches into what I consider the “big picture;” that each of us possesses the ability to be who we wish to be. Whether we indeed want to drop a few pounds, improve our relationships, or just smile more often; the solutions lie not in our actions but in our thoughts, those sparkling connections firing day in and day out between our synapses.

Let’s take that concept a little deeper, shall we?

Our thoughts — to a large extent — are altered by our feelings. If I am angry or sad, my thoughts will be unlike when I am happy or excited. Upbeat folks are more inclined to venture down new avenues than depressed folks; who will lean toward stagnation; both of these due in large extent to underlying emotions. Therefore, it makes sense — at least to me — that the more I accentuate the positive, the more I engage in new behaviors.

Why don’t we do that more often? It’s not that difficult really.

Underneath these thoughts and their triggering feelings lie beliefs. By example, if I believe that life is painful, it’s much more difficult to modify my emotions to find the positive than if I believe life is glorious. Since we are always looking to validate our beliefs, we find “proof” of them wherever we look. One who believes life stinks will uncover countless examples as evidence. Whereby, one who loves life will find an equal number shoring up her philosophy. In effect, what you seek generates emotional responses, altering your thoughts, leading to different actions, adjusting the outcome of your life. Change your observations; change your life.

What I have personally observed since my bike accident is a tremendous outpouring of love, support, and good wishes from people I do and do not know. Where I live has some drawbacks; I won’t deny it. Yet, it is also populated with the most astounding, assorted, diversity of magnificent individuals.

Here’s where beliefs come home to roost. I trust that people the planet over — while not identical — are similar. We rise in the morning hoping to do the best we can, striving to take care of family and to contribute to our communities. We attempt (mostly) to treat others with dignity and respect, and hope that they will do the same with us. We are all fighting — or embracing — the “human condition,” coming from and returning to the same place. We are alike.

So, if that is correct, and the citizens of my community have been so wondrously caring and compassionate, my beliefs profess that the people where you live are parallel, and that applies no matter where you’re reading this. Logically then, if the world is bursting with people who, at their center, support and assist each other, then this planet is a better place than I gave it credit for being.

I cannot prove it of course, but I assure you that it’s true. (Besides, it cannot hurt to hold true that belief, can it?)

Again, thank you for the concern. I’m getting better every day.

The True Story of Getting Hit by a Car

2011-10-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was horrible.I was going to ride my bike to my appointments. The bright sunny clear morning sky cooperated as I headed north on E Street. Upon reaching the intersection of Highway 101, I waited for a green light.Once it changed, a car heading in the opposite direction proceeded into the intersection, as did I. Yet, instead of going straight, the driver turned on to the highway and directly at me. Unfortunately, the laws of physics say only one object can occupy a space at a time; so when a 2,600-pound car and a 180-pound bicyclist collide at the same point in time, one of them will be moved. Of course, that was me — and in a rather forceful manner.Upon the horrifying realization that there was no way to avoid being hit, time slowed down. As I saw the automobile come into contact with me, I thought, “My life is about to change.” The only unknown was “How much?” As the front bumper impacted my leg, I sent up a quick prayer, “please let this be minor, and if not — please let it be quick.”

My bike fell under the car as I rolled on to its hood, smashing into the windshield. I vaguely recall the vehicle continuing to move forward with me on its hood, whimpering. What I later discovered was that I impacted the windshield with enough force to destroy it and was subsequently hurled 20 feet down the road. I remember crashing headfirst on the asphalt, shattering my bike helmet.

What happened next was nothing short of amazing.

As if guided by an invisible director, people descended on the scene from every bearing. Although conscious, I was — needless to say — confused. I couldn’t tell in which direction I was facing, nor from where the voices came, but I could discern individuals coordinating to direct traffic away from me. I heard cell phones click to life from those calling emergency services. Strangers ran to assist me, and one gentleman — an angel as far as I’m concerned — took my head in his hands to hold me still to prevent further injury, his calm reassuring voice a comfort unlike anything I can remember. With my head cradled in his grip, I knew I could “let go.” Even though there was no major pain, I was moaning, more out of fear. I wanted to sit up to survey what damage had been done to me but this Godsend of a man insisted I be still and he held me firm. He assured me help was coming and he would take care of me until then. The EMTs arrived within seconds, as did the fire department, and police. I felt embarrassed by all the commotion I was causing, and by blocking a major highway, but no one seemed bothered. Everyone was focused on helping me.

Someone asked if I was okay.

I quipped, “You mean aside from the obvious?”

He laughed; I cannot say how much that meant. That was a hint of normalcy and I so needed it. While the EMTs checked me out and loaded me into the ambulance, I couldn’t help but crack wise. It might not have been the traditional platform for a comedian but — what can I say — when the entertainment bug bites, you just gotta go with it.

The doctor who discharged me later called me the “Man of Steel.” He said, “For a 57-year old guy to take the impact you took and be able to walk out of this hospital on your own power means you’re either living right, or someone’s looking after you — or both.” (He also said the helmet saved my life.)

There has been an amazing outpouring of concern for me since the news got out. Everyone asks how I feel. When I woke up today, I realized I had aches in places where I did not even know I had places so my answer is consistent, “Sore and Grateful.” This could have ended with countless other outcomes and with so much more pain and suffering than I am enduring today. As many have pointed out (like I don’t know), I could have died. Yet none of those happened; none; just some abrasions, sprains, and contusions.

I am lucky beyond calculation.

As importantly, if it wasn’t for the kindness of strangers and the professionalism of the first responders, I’m not sure what would be today. All I know for sure is that I am indeed blessed, and I am reminded yet again that none of us exist in isolation. We come together to help each other and from that action, we become our own better angels. We are benevolent, caring, magnificent beings who — when push comes to shove — will do the good thing.

I don’t ever want to go through that again; that probably goes without saying. However in some unlikely manner, the faith it has given me, the hope it has provided me, and the reminder of what really matters has sincerely made yesterday one of the best days in my life. I am grateful to everyone who helped more than I can ever express.

God bless you.

Dieting Stupidity in the Quest of Becoming Skinny

2011-09-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

In the sixties, the main diet methodology was a purple collection of mimeographed pages covered with a lengthy list of foods and their calorie counts. Dieters were instructed to eat only 1,000 calories. Not knowing how to manage our eating (or we would not have been fat), we’d scarf down our daily allotments before lunch and were then faced with two most unhappy options: a) starve the remainder of the day, or; b) quit. Either way, the process was unsuccessful. Frustrated, many opted for easier fad diets; “The Grapefruit Diet,” “Egg Diet,” and “Watermelon Diet,” to name a few. Same results.

Time marches on but stupidity is eternal; so many continue to engage in diet foolishness. Let’s take a tour of some of today’s more bizarre diets. (I did not make these up.) As they say, “Do not try these at home.”

We’ll begin with the Vision Diet, based on the logic that if something looks bad, we’re disinclined to eat it. So, don a pear of blue-tinted glasses all day and everything you plan to eat will look disgusting.

The flaw? Well, aside from the fact that you could hurt your eyes from wearing tinted spectacles too long, the hole is that — for those of us who overeat — we aren’t overly concerned with food’s appearance. Let’s be honest. When you’re gobbling down handfuls of three-day-old leftovers at midnight while standing in front of the refrigerator in your boxers, food presentation isn’t the main criterion by which you’re making culinary decisions.

Next is ear stapling, whereby surgical staples are placed in the inner cartilage of the ear, supposedly stimulating pressure points that control appetite. (One might assume the constant stress of having sharp objects in your ear would actually cause you to eat.) In actuality, the body shortly gets used to it, so one reverts to old habits — or amplifies the process by adding more, developing an abnormal attraction to office products.

While on the subject of body altering, make some noise for the Tongue Patch, whereby a one-inch square of mesh is sewn onto your tongue. Unlike medical patches, it contains no medicine. Instead, it merely makes it difficult — even painful — to eat solid food, so the dieter literally starves herself. But wait! There’s more! For $1,500 or more, you get the further benefits of possible choking and nerve damage. Of course, once the patch is removed, old habits return, albeit with a strong craving to chew on your pants.

Other examples of dietary dumbness include the Cigarette Diet; you smoke instead of eat. Total weight loss is determined by how much your lungs weigh upon removal. The Cotton Ball Diet involves swallowing cotton balls to fill up before eating. One could accomplish the same objective by consuming paper — while having the added benefit of helping to recycle trash. Feed your sweet tooth with The Twinkie Diet. Twinkies, day and night, night and day. Since there is insignificant nutritional value in these not-found-in-nature foodstuffs, you might as well engage in an all-chocolate or all-vodka diet for the same results.

Finally, winning the “most disgusting award” is The Tapeworm Diet, illegal in the U.S., but still offered elsewhere. One ingests beef tapeworm cysts, which eventually interfere with digestion and absorption of nutrients, generating significant weight loss. Once goal weight is reached, an antibiotic is given, which kills the tapeworm so it can be expelled. Aside from the “yick factor,” other side effects can include cysts in the liver, eyes, brain, and spinal cord with potentially lethal consequences.

However, just thinking about that is enough to squelch one’s appetite causing a drop of a few pounds — so maybe it does work after all.

Working Hard at Relaxing

2011-08-24T15:18:00.000-07:00

I’m not dead.

At least when I wrote that; I wasn’t. Being the intelligent reader of this column, you put two and two together and surmised that in a flash. Hopefully, as you read this, I am still in the not-dead state of being — and shall remain so for decades yet to come.

Having proven therefore that I understand very little about what it’s like to die, you will cut me slack about not really knowing — but safely assuming — that no one’s last words were ever, “I wish I would have spent more time working and less time enjoying life.”

We would agree, wouldn’t we?

So, then what’s the deal with non-stop, dawn-to-dusk, 24/7, busy-making? We don’t ever just “chill.” Well, at least I don’t; maybe you do, but I’ll bet dollars to donuts that you’re in the same place. There’s so much to get done with so few hours to do it.

Forty-hour workweek; what’s that? Wake up. Shower. Shave. Throw some frozen waffles down your gullet while checking the mail and packing lunches. Get the kids to school, pick them up, and beat feet to soccer practice and gymnastics. Straightaway back, homework, meals, brush teeth, and off to bed. To accomplish everything requires groundwork: grocery and clothes shopping, housecleaning, home maintenance, and car servicing. These necessitate steady income — and, oh yes — have you heard the news about the economy? You better not slack off at work or they’ll swap you out quicker than a DVD rental on a Saturday night. So, off to the salt mines, bringing our assignments home so we can get them on our kitchen tables in the morning and the bed stands at night. We’re work harder while having the privilege of paying more for everything. Come end of day, it’s drop like a lead brick off a six-foot wall.

It’s no wonder we don’t have time for “a life.” Or do we?

My sister phones, “What are you up to?” She asks.

I reply, “I’m working hard at relaxing.”

Stop the clock. Re-read that response please: “I’m working hard at relaxing.” Huh? That statement makes as much sense as “same difference,” or “kosher ham;” but I swear it was my reply and I’m betting you relate. Our lives are so cluttered, that if tasks were boxes, we’d be featured on the TV series “Hoarders.” No longer are we human beings, we have become “human doings.”

Last Saturday, you know what I did? I could have worked on my computer, or mowed the lawn. Goodness know, there were bills aplenty requiring my attention. Nope, didn’t do any of those. Instead, I made a conscious decision to do nothing.

It didn’t start that way. My dog, Jack, and I went for a walk. Upon returning, he scampered into the backyard, rolled about on his back, feet to the sky; and then did what animals do so well: Absolutely nothing. Zero. He simply “was.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I did that, so — not having a better plan — I joined him! I didn’t put my feet in the air, but I honest-to-God did lie down in the grass and watched cloud animals pass over my head. I felt the sun on my skin. I let my mind go where it went. For a short time, Jack and I simply appreciated that we exist.

Even machines have an off switch. Surely we deserve as much as do they. The world’s going to keep on turning, even if you’re not the one who’s pushing. Take a moment and recharge. You’ll get more done later.

You just never know

2011-08-17T16:12:00.000-07:00

Early morning routine: Jack, my dog, and I are taking our walk. His leash is in my hand, my headphones are clamped over my ears; I am absorbed in the back-and-forth of my favorite podcast. Jack and I; just doin’ our thing.

The neighborhood is residential; no major thoroughfares, so I’m quite cognizant of the large diesel truck that rattles up next to us and slows down. Matching my pace, the driver waves at me. I assume he’s just being friendly so I return the action, figuring he knows me from my decades of living in a smaller community.

He gestures again, this time I recognize he’s motioning me to come over. Pulling Jack’s leash in tight, we walk on to the street and approach the open passenger window.

The white truck’s interior is clean, uncluttered, and modern, with a flat screen in the center of the dashboard. As for its only passenger, he appears to be in his forties, healthy, short-cropped hair, and brandishing a smile as big as the vehicle and as warm as its motor.

Leaning toward me across the center console, he opens, “You probably don't remember me…”

He's correct.

“…About 25 years ago, I applied for a job working for you. You didn't hire me.”

“I'm sorry.” A slight rumbling of anxiety bubbles in my belly. Is this some form of latent workplace revenge?

“No need to apologize,” he quickly adds, waiving away the thought with his hand. “You were very nice and polite. You told me that you thought I was overqualified and that I would get bored, and you felt my talents would be better used elsewhere. I took your advice.”

The truck continues its diesel clattering, I move in closer to hear better.

“I wanted you know that I now run this company; it’s worth a few million dollars. I'm really happy how things turned out. You were right.”

Pleased (and relieved), I respond, “Oh! I’m glad. Maybe YOU should hire ME.”

His laugh is warm, friendly, and relaxed. I suddenly feel like I’m talking to an old friend.

“I see you with your wife walking your dog, and I keep meaning to tell you how grateful I am. But it never seemed the right time — until now.”

“Thank you for doing so. I’m really delighted it worked out so well. It’s nice to know.”

Cars line up and are then forced to drive around us, so, as much as I’m now enjoying this unexpected interlude, I’m self-conscious, and figure I better move on. Before I can, he adds, “Sometimes the Lord pushes you in directions through the people you meet. You are one of those people.” He pauses and looks me in the eyes. “Thank you.”

With that, we shook hands through the window, said goodbye, and the truck disappeared around the corner.

I remained a statue in the road, and reflected on what just happened. I was humbled, uplifted, honored, and — in some way — I had a more pronounced sense of purpose. I don’t know how else to explain it.

We never know, do we, when an action we take will affect someone else in a profound manner? We take care of our families, and ourselves, and in between we try to do our best to treat others with respect and dignity, hoping and praying it all turns out well in the end. Once in awhile, we are lucky enough to find out it did.

What we do matters – in ways we might never even begin to know.

How Your Emotions Can Affect Long-Term Change

2011-08-03T14:16:00.000-07:00

Between the covers of the business book currently on my nightstand, the author devotes few pages to discussing cash flow or spreadsheets, while much ink is dedicated to changing one’s thoughts about money. It is her premise that our income basically determined more by how we think than by the actions we take. Of course, those considerations then produce behaviors, which lead to results. Therefore, if we “dig down” and adjust them, we will do what we do in an altered manner. This provides fresh results improving our business.

In effect, change your thoughts; change your financial life.

The barricade is our ol’ buddy, Denial.

Thought patterns, much like a river cutting a path through granite, our etched into our psyche over time, with much repetition. To refashion such embedded patterns takes a great deal of effort — and it’s not like we’re not busy already, right? Besides, “there’s always tomorrow.”

The author suggests that such transformation only occurs once “we’re hit by a two-by-four.” Of course, she’s speaking figuratively, not literally. (I hate it when people say “literally” when they mean “figuratively.” Sorry, pet peeve…)

Let me expand: Suppose you’re in a floundering relationship. You didn’t get there overnight; it began subtly, “the small things.” For example, you don’t talk as much. “It’s no big deal,” you think, “We’re just busy right now.” That might be accurate; having said that, “something” still feels off. But, you put it to back burner until you have more evidence — or time.

After awhile, your “couple’s time” becomes more sparse. You are roommates more than partners, on parallel tracks with no intersections. Logically, you can explain it away. “We’ve both got so much on our plates; things will get back to normal soon.” No action taken.

Soon, intimacy, in all its forms, has become a memory. There is now real distance, even a bit of resentment. Nobody brings anything up; you’re not even sure you want to broach the subject. Also, the chasm is now an additional barrier. Oh sure, you’re thinking about “making some changes” when things settle down. For now, it’s “stay the course.”

Then comes the two-by-four: He wants “out.”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he says, in a difficult, unexpected (?), conversation. “We’ve grown apart.”

It’s a pattern experienced by millions of couples. Despite the warnings, and their ever-increasing appearances, we are able to rationalize what’s going on, while denying what we felt. Therefore, for most, it takes getting slammed upside the head with a brick (again, “figuratively”) before we do what must be done. This is in any facet of our lives, from our relationships to diets to finance.

Newton’s first law of motion says that a body in motion will remain in motion unless acted on by an external force. In effect, we will do what we do until, painfully; we can no longer deny the results of our actions. Once at that place, we are so overwhelmed, that it seems an insurmountable problem and we remain stagnant in unhappiness.

First of all, it is not undefeatable if we break it into small steps, and engage in them with regularly and immediacy.

That stated, it’s still healthier to avoid that unhappy condition by understanding the urgency of emotions when it comes to moving forward. Look at it this way; our feelings are the gasoline fueling the engine; logic is then the steering wheel. Without the first, we’re going nowhere. Without the latter, we’re out of control. Developing both is essential to leading a happy, well-adjusted life.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

Can We Be Social Without Going Out to Eat?

2011-07-27T12:58:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t seen him in years even though we live in the same town. You know how it is, I’m busy, so is he. Time got away from us. It’s not like we had a disagreement, or we didn’t want to see each other; it’s just that, well, life kicked in…

I answered the phone, “Hey Scott,” says he, “I just realized that we haven’t gotten together in a long time and we’ve got so much to catch up on. I thought we could schedule a time.”

"Sounds great,” I replied, “I can do lunch next Thursday. If that doesn’t work, we could get coffee in the afternoon, or, on Wednesday, we could meet early and grab a bagel. Where would you like to go?”
He responded, “You know the park with the duck pond?”
“Yes, the one with all the trails?”
“Yeah, that one. What about Thursday at noon?”
“Sure, that works for me. But I’m not familiar with any restaurants there.”
“There aren’t any. I’ve been trying to get in shape, and I know you’re always watching your weight, so I thought we could walk and talk. It would be nice to catch up outside.”

And so we did. But, can I be honest? It felt really weird; kind of like wearing someone else’s clothes. It seems normal enough at first glance, but you just can’t get comfortable.

I mean, think about it, what’s one of the first questions we ask when we decide to meet up with someone: Lunch or coffee? If you really wanted to crash our economy, ban meetings in restaurants or coffee houses.

I’m sure it goes back to primitive times. It’s conceivable (at least to me) that early Australopithecines at day’s end gathered around a half-devoured gazelle and discussed their events on the plains. After all, a leisurely grunting session with some close hominoids after a long period gathering, scavenging, and escaping from carnivores would be welcome.

Although the evolutionary train has pulled out, our habits have not. We celebrate with food. We do business over dinner. Relationships begin — and end — at restaurants. Even our last tribute, the wake, is deeply intertwined with eating.

There’s nothing wrong with these; don’t get me wrong. But one has to admit, that for most of us, it’s hard to picture doing anything else with each other. If we’re looking to adjust our collective waistlines and get in shape, maybe we need to examine some options. After all, there are book clubs, quilting circles, or even video games.

My son was in town; this usually involves copious amounts of food. Under the television lies our unused video console; the wireless type specializing in sporting events, where one creates icons to compete against each other.

Said he to me, “Bet I can take you in a sword fight."

I might be 30 years his senior but I still have testosterone; I couldn’t let that stand.

Our characters faced each other. The battle was joined. After several close rounds, lots of laughter, a great deal of sweat, and exclamations of “You’re toast!” or “Take that,” age indeed triumphed over youth.

More important, I can already tell it will be one of my favorite memories, far more than yet another trip to yet another restaurant. Plus the added bonus is I got to show him he’d still better not mess with his old man. (Of course, I still can’t lift my arms; but I’ll deny it if you tell him.)

Handling the food addiction: What to do when slip-ups happen

2011-07-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

He was celebrating four years of sobriety. When I asked how he knew it was time to initially seek help, he said, “I finally realized I had no control over alcohol. I thought about it all the time. I couldn’t wait to drink. I was obsessed with it.” As I listened, I thought, “Substitute the ‘food’ for ‘alcohol,’ and that’s me.” It was one of the triggers in getting me to lose my weight.

It was also the instant I realized that overeating is every bit as much of an addiction as drugs or alcohol.

We don’t like to think of overeating as an addiction for several reasons. First of all, it’s part of the norm to eat too much. That would make us a country of addicts, and true as that might be, we sure don’t want to admit it. Moreover, there are no age restrictions, you can do it in public, and it’s legal. Eating too much might make you fat, but a cop won’t pull you over for a 300-triglyceride level, it won’t cause you to black out, nor do unwise things you’ll regret with morning’s light.

Merriam-Webster’s Medical Dictionary defines addiction as, “persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be physically, psychologically, or socially harmful.” Let’s be clear; when you’re hiding goodies in your purse, lying on the bed to tighten your belt, or avoiding social gatherings because you’re afraid of the reactions; it’s a safe bet you’ve met the entry qualifications for addicted.

The bigger problem is, unlike the more nefarious addictions, we cannot “just say no.” As difficult as it might be, an alcoholic can swear off booze, and a smoker can refuse cigarettes. We, however, must continue to indulge while learning to set arbitrary, always shifting, sometimes ill defined limits about what constitutes “too far.”

Sure, a half-gallon of ice cream is a pretty clear violation of self-control. One could say the same for a quart, maybe. But where do we draw the line? Is a cup all right? What about two? To the alcoholic, an ounce is too much. For us, where does it start?

Let’s set the stage: A healthy, thin person consoles herself after a rough day with “chocolate therapy,” downing a pint of fudge-brownie-chocolate chunk ice cream and a couple of devil’s food cookies as a chaser. After sharing with her co-workers the next day, they all laugh knowingly.

“I’ve been there,” says one, “Sometimes, you just need to go with it.”

No one thinks she’s addicted. She looks great. She’s healthy (albeit sporting a humongous sugar buzz). Yet, when I do the same actions for the same reasons, I’m out of control?

See, it’s not really about the overeating, but the internal dialog. A healthy personality analyzes the calorie overload and thinks, “Well, that was over the top. I better cut back tomorrow” — and she does, regaining her balance.

The food addict blows it out of proportion, thinking, “Oh my God! I blew it! How could I do this? This is awful! I can’t believe what an idiot I am!” Berating her very worth as a human being she finally decides she’s a complete failure. With that observation, she gives herself permission to let herself totally go and accelerates over the cliff.

Yeah, we’ve got issues. Yeah, it stinks. But handling mistakes is part of the process. If guilt and shame were motivational, we’d be skinny as rails. It’s not about perfection. Everyone slips up; success will be determined in how we handle it afterwards.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

Things Are Not As Bad As We Make Them Out To Be

2011-07-06T13:52:00.000-07:00

Complain, complain, complain…

My, but we’ve become a grouchy lot, haven’t we? Maybe it’s climate change, or the economy; who knows? It could be the alignment of the stars for all I know, but we’ve got our cranky pants hitched on and we’re wearing ‘em a little too snug around our sensitive parts.

Okay, maybe YOU are not cranky, but many of us are, and if you won’t own it, I will.

I’m at the supermarket loading up on low-calorie, high-fiber, sugar-free, non-fat, no-taste foods that I force down my gullet in order to keep my weight in check. I really want chocolate, french fries, and chips; but that’s not happening, so I’m feeling deprived. Adding insult to injury, I don’t have time for this errand, but since my refrigerator resembles an arctic cave, I’m cooling my jets in the check out line. The lady in front of me waits until after the clerk has totaled all her groceries before she takes out her checkbook, enough of a trigger to kick my internal curmudgeon into overdrive, “Hey lady!” the voice in my head screeches. “You didn’t realize you were going to have to pay for this before hand? Couldn’t you have check ready when you got in line … besides you’ve never heard of debit cards?!!” Since I won’t comment out loud (I’m too “polite”), I roll my eyes, exhale with exasperation (making sure she hears it), shift my feet restlessly, cross my arms, and set my attitude to low burn.

Or have you ever had your cell phone drop a call? Jeeze! That irks me! It wasn’t even a particularly important call, and to be honest, I didn’t want to talk to him anyway, accidentally selecting ACCEPT instead of DECLINE because the layout of the phone is so stupid. Nonetheless, I’m now heavily vested in commiserated about how his 62-inch 3-D TV’s glasses suck. Really? That’s your grievance? There are people who would love simply to witness a sunrise, and you’re grouchy because your nifty cool absolutely amazing invention doesn’t come with rechargeable batteries? I mean, come on! Yet, I’m empathizing — at least until his call explodes in a burst of static and I detonate a blast of curse words at my phone, cellular carrier, and even the government for allowing such inferior systems to get to market.

Time for a chill pill; on the grand scale of life, most of what rankles us is not even a blip on the radar screen of “real” problems; it’s microscopic. Half the time, we don’t even remember it long enough for it to survive the ride home, let alone why we got so upset in the first place; yet we’re singing “ain’t it awful” with the volume on full.

I’ve got a phone in my pocket that connects me to anyone on the planet, lets me watch family movies, listen to music, and take photographs. It’s got more power than the entire computer system on the Apollo space crafts; and I have the gall to launch a hissy fit because I have to push REDIAL? Or I complain about having to drop a few pounds — while half the planet would beg for what I throw away? Spoiled, you’re table’s waiting.

We don’t live in a golly-gosh-gee-willikers fog of happy thoughts and pink ponies; I’m not saying that either. Sometimes, life is tough, sure. But equally true is that most of our “problems” are better than what most of the people on most of the planet face most of the time.

For that I need to be mostly grateful.

Dog Trains Man: How a Rescued Dog Taught Its Owner New Tricks

2011-06-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard tell that dog owners (or “guardians” as some prefer) look like their dogs. I did not realize with how much haste that transpires.

We have been considering adopting a dog for a few years. As with any important project, we began by identifying what we wanted. One, he must be a rescue dog. Two, she must not be bothered by our two cats (of course how they respond to the dog will be their decision). Three, we wanted a smaller dog that had some personality but was not hyper. Those were the “must haves,” the remainder were “would likes.” We surfed websites, monitored our newspaper, and checked shelters and animal control with regularity.
Welcome “Jack.” He’s a five-year old mini-Schnauzer with a persuasive, mostly subdued personality who loves our backyard, follows me like a shadow, is housebroken (yay!), and even understands some commands, allowing me the option to train him even more; something I wanted. While I write, he has already taken to lying in his bed, apparently content to watch me type. (I guess he’s hard-pressed for entertainment.)

As for similarity — although I did not think of it when I picked him up; he already resembles me (or I do him). His hair, although dark of base, is basically “silver,” slightly disheveled, and he sports a gray goatee in need of a shave. More striking is that he is also into yoga; I’ve seen him doing “downward facing dog” repeatedly. (Insert rim shot here…)

The one attribute of which I am NOT fond is that, although he slept through night one without incident, he is evidently an early riser, quite contrary to myself. A perk of self-employment with one’s home as the office, is the ability to grab a few extra winks each morning, since my commute consists of four stairs. Alas, I fear those days have passed, as Jack is part rooster, prone to rise with the sun (especially ill-fated since this is summer and first light is unfortunately early).

Therefore, today, I awoke far earlier than was my pattern. My wife, snickering wickedly, commented, “Looks like your days of staying up late are over.”

Growling (yet another similarity with a dog), I dragged my carcass from my bed to begin this new, unexpected routine. Change had once again scampered into my life, this time in the form of a twenty-pound canine that could not wait to take a walk. “I must teach him the command, ‘sleep,’” I wearily lamented as I secured him in his harness.

But that’s the way it is, isn’t it? We make our plans and move forth into the yet to come. We believe we’re in control — but it’s illusion. Life steers; we are passengers. Whether changing how we eat, seeking mental health, developing relationships, financial planning, or simply adopting a furry friend, the results of our actions cannot always be predicted nor controlled.

So, once again, I am fine-tuning to the unexpected, a progression without end, and one in which we all engage non-stop. Sometimes, the adjustments are painful; other times, thank God, they are minor. Yet it is unavoidable.

I detest getting up early; it fouls my mood.

But, conversely, I can be buoyed by the outpouring of warmth from this newfound community of “dog people,” which has already been as heartwarming and loving as the joy elicited by Jack when I reach for his leash and we head out into the (too early) morning. It’s my choice.

Now, which one of us is really training the other?

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

The New Normal: Our Economy Will NEVER Return to What it was - and What to do About That

2011-06-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a revelation.

Since the “great recession” of 2008 (which appears to still be in process) came trampling through our economic landscape, I have been — like so many others — waiting and hoping for the rebuilding. When will things get back to how they were? Can we soon return to easier times of job security and stable wages? My ship is weary of white caps; I long to navigate calm seas. When can we be there?

While pondering such issues, it fell hard on me, like a load of gold bricks sold on many radio talk shows as a “hedge against hard times.” The economy — and our lifestyle — will NEVER return to how it was. The “good old days” (such as they were) are in the rear view mirror and we have no reverse gear. We cannot turn around and they will not come back.

That's an upsetting — some might say "terrifying" — concept. Never again will we be able to conduct our lives and businesses like we did “back then.” What we are now experiencing is — and will continue to be — the “New Normal.” Until our last days, and those of our grandchildren, “different” will be “ordinary.” Future generations will study the heyday of the 1990s and early 2000s much the same as we picture the gay 1890s or the early 1920s; wild, excessive, booming — and only imaginable as images in history books.

I don’t mean to be a downer, but it’s time we bow to an ever-apparent reality and accept facts for what they are, not what we long for them to be. Denying the obvious delays the inevitable, which furthers great hurt and denigrates our lives. Striving to maintain an illusory status quo by rejecting reality prolongs its effects; and makes worse the pain.

Having said that, I do pride myself on being positive, while understanding that the set up of this column might appear less than optimistic. Yet, it can be. Due to this unhappy situation in which we find ourselves mired, we are becoming more resourceful, better planning our expenses, accepting gratification in that which we took for granted previously, and we are contributing more to our local communities.

These are wonderful changes. Many considered getting “more involved in our communities” or “cutting back on frivolous spending” numerous times before. However, until now, the pressure was not convincing enough to force action. “One of these days…” has arrived. It is today.

Significant change is always born of fear, force, or pain. No one gets up one morning, totally content with life, and says, "Let me see how I can change it.” Rather, when circumstances become too uncomfortable, we decide to do something different. The great recession has inflicted much fear and great pain, and has forced upon us harsh change. Although things will never be as they were, we overlook that they can be better. We will have tools and techniques never before considered. We will at some point re-establish equilibrium. Our world will forever be altered; yet it will also be unique with a new set of advantages and benefits; unknown to us today, but surely waiting over the horizon.

The quicker we accept that there is no turning back, the speedier we will face the future — and the faster we will experience these new advantages.

Some might disagree with my analysis; I accept that. However, should I be off track — and society does return to “how it was” — there’s is no down side, for if we adjust, we will be healthier and stronger for having worked together and supported each other through these times.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

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2011-06-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

My latest newsletter.
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The power of intention

2011-06-15T11:35:00.000-07:00

Being a news junkie, I’m glued to the cable networks. Wedged between the peccadilloes of badly behaving starlets and inappropriately tweeted photos, the anchor brings in two political panelists to discuss the upcoming election (Already? Really? Oy!) To feign “balance” he has a GOP strategist and his Democratic counterpart (as if there are only two sides to a story – but don’t get me started). I don’t remember the first question, and frankly, it doesn’t matter; but what I do recall was once the argument commenced, it became animated without delay. Lots of energy and of course, disagreement, exchanged between the duo.

It could have been either one; but in this case it was the GOP guy who started “powering” over anything stated contrary to his position. When the Dem countered, the Repub would shout him down, yelling ever louder. He didn’t call names; he wasn’t condescending; and – to be honest – he made logical sense (although I disagreed). But this is not about politics.

After the “discussion” ended, I had a mental image of him talking to his friends off-camera. They were probably all high-fiving, shouting, “Wow! You blew him out of the water,” or “He couldn’t hold a candle to you.” Congratulations would abound; backslapping would ensue.

That’s when it dawned on me; his intention – as far as I could discern – was NEVER to have a discussion, but rather to prove his point; and that’s what showed.

The number one law of change: Intentions direct actions.

When a client asks for advice, my first reply has become: “What’s your intention?” Almost nothing matters more in one’s actions or communications than understanding that unassuming question. Unfortunately, most of us do not take the time to dig deep enough to analyze that. The result is we find ourselves in a most unhappy place.

Let’s take a simple example. You’re upset by someone else’s comments. Your feelings are hurt. So, you decide that you “need to talk to her.” That’s fair; and if done well, it’s even “healthy.” But if the intention of what you’re trying to achieve isn’t clear to her, you’ll get in hot water. If the intention is to “give her a piece of your mind,” your communication will be much different than if it is to better understand what she meant, or to heal a rift. If you are looking to minimize the chance of conflict and actually accomplishing something, slow down long enough to understand the intention (preferably BEFORE opening your mouth; but it’s never too late).

This is because attitude transmits louder than words. A popular study went so far as to say that what we say accounts for less than ten percent of our communication; it’s tone and body language (attitude) that matter most. In effect, we might be able to massage what we say, but it’s a heck of a lot harder to mask what we feel.

We can apply this same principle to our own actions.

When trying to change a habit, it’s imperative to first analyze what is the intention of the offending behavior. What does it get us by continuing it – and what is the resultant cost? Once we realize why we we’re doing it —our intentions — our next question can be “How do we achieve those goals without the unpleasant side effects?”

Every behavior is born of positive intention; one designed to make our lives easier. Unfortunately, if we don’t look beneath and understand those intentions, we can create a mess, even if that wasn’t what was intended.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

A primer on how to change habits

2011-06-08T19:30:00.000-07:00

Most of life is done by rote.

For most of us, alarm clocks buzz the same time every morning. The average grocery store stocks over 38,000 items; yet the standard shopper goes to the same store every week, usually on the same day, and chooses from the same few dozen items every outing. We become brand loyal, eating our meals at approximately the same period every day, leave for work at a uniform time, drive a standard route, and return home at a consistent hour every night. Evenings consist of consuming one of a few “favorite” dinners. Entertainment consists of books or magazines from a few select genres and a stable of favorite authors; or maybe a regular line-up of TV shows, which we watch while sitting in “our usual place,” and snacking — or not — on the same foods we had yesterday at the same time. At day’s end, we retire at the same time, even sleeping with the same person (hopefully), only to repeat these patterns come dawn.

This is not to suggest we are unimaginative, bland, nor boring; rather to illustrate that we are creatures of habit; no if’s, and’s, or butt’s about it.

Reality is these habits make life easier. Picture the above scenario where every single day consisted of an entirely new routine. Exciting? Sure — for a little while. After that, just plain exhausting.

The downside of a life assembled on a foundation of habits are the “side effects;” those unexpected results of our patterns. Make no mistake however; they are every bit as much a part of the habit as are the results we seek. For example, if I’m bored, I eat. If I’m angry, I eat. If I’m sad, I eat. It’s a common routine. It allows me to feel better fast. After all, chips or ice cream not only alleviate boredom, but also go a long way toward holding negative feelings at bay — for the short term. The side effect is a weight gain. I get to feel good quickly, for the simple price of obesity long term.

Conversely, some people read a book when bored; when sad, call a friend; and when angry, take a brisk walk. (There is a clinical term for such folks: “Skinny.”) Whereby their habits also provide comfort, the side effects are healthier. Should I long for such results, I must also develop similar habits.

The thing is that it’s extremely difficult to “drop” habits. Since their sole purpose is to fill voids, simply abolishing them make those holes more painful. This in turn, triggers the very behavior we were trying to banish — which puts our actions at odds with our feelings. In a case like that, emotions almost always win out and the habit — and its side effects — strengthens.

To break this cycle, one must replace the offending behavior with a counterproductive one. So, rather than saying, “I won’t eat when stressed,” develop a plan, such as, “I’ll take a walk when stressed.” Providing you don’t also grab a candy bar on the way out the door, the anxiety is still diminished — without the pesky side effect. Yes, feels awkward at first (because it’s not yet a habit), but given a few repetitions, it eventually forms a new, healthier, habit.

We never really get rid of habits. We put them in cold storage; we can thaw them out whenever we choose. Unfortunately we do that more times than we consciously choose, which is yet one more habit we can change.

The fantasy of perfectionism

2011-05-18T12:32:00.000-07:00

I am a perfect-o-holic.

Sure, I know it’s folly; yet I can picture that magical happy place where all goes according to plan and everything works out as I imagined. I have a plan.

Today, I become the pinnacle of modern workplace efficiency. Without exception, every single solitary item on my to-do list will be accomplished — even those lingering on the pad since ‘07. Phone calls will be returned in a timely, upbeat, eager manner, complete with all the necessary and required information at hand. Today, every goal will be exceeded; every deadline shall be beat. Should I spot a customer, client, co-worker, or vendor, I shall stretch out a warm enthusiastic hand in friendship, greeting her with passion, warmth, and energy; developing the ultimate positive reputation. Today, all reports will be finished on time and with precision. Today, the five-year backlog of filing shall be ended. Facebook farm games, really cute cat videos on YouTube, and forwarded emails with titles like “LOL! OMG! You’ve got to see this!” shall not deter me from my mission. I am a rock. (I shall be so effectual that I will have even had enough spare time to properly arrange my computer’s desktop icons in perfect order. After all, I owe it to myself to have some fun.)

Moreover, I will not ignore my most important relationship. Mark this date; for it is when I became the perfect spouse. Should my loving wife require assistance, no matter what else I am doing, I shall immediately — sans attitude, of course — cease all other pursuits, and lavish upon her all the attention she so richly deserves. As illustration of how central is our shared life, I will make time to clean the bathroom, prepare dinner, wash the dishes, pay the bills, and even massage her aching feet, expecting nothing in return. Today, I am the perfect husband.

To achieve these lofty goals, I must reserve time for me, for should I falter, all who depend on me will be let down. Therefore, I shall rise with sufficient time to allow for hours of meditation and soul centering. After which, I shall adorn myself in a made-in-the-U.S.A. fashionable, waterproof, breathable, sweat suit with state-of-the-art walking gear. To which, I will attach a heart monitor, fire up some inspirational music, grab the walking weights, and tread briskly for miles; assuring my heart rate remains in its ultimate target range the entire time.

Upon returning home, I shall shower in purified, alkaline, ionized microwater, and then prepare the most important meal of the day. My healthy breakfast consists entirely of 100% organic, all natural, unprocessed, non-fat, free-range, locally grown, high-fiber foods. Further ensuring complete balance, I masticate each morsel 32 times, one for each tooth.

This will be my new dawn, my genesis, my beginning. All will be perfect!

Before the rooster crows, I am gently roused by my ascending, progressive, Tibetan chime, Zen alarm. Noticing the early hour, the stars against the dark night sky, and picturing all I will accomplish this perfect day in perfect order — I jerk my certified organic ivory-colored, imported, Egyptian cotton blanket over my head, slam the snooze button, muttering, “Yick, there’s always tomorrow,” just like I did yesterday.

A thought crosses my somnolent synapses, “Maybe, this all-or-nothing attitude is overwhelming and holding me back? Would I be more productive if I set more realistic goals?”

Pondering the revelation, I realize that if I did, I’d actually have to change. Why would I do that when everything’s perfect?

More than being positive

2010-02-21T21:03:00.000-08:00

A column in a recent issue of Newsweek magazine has prompted me to think — always a dangerous practice.

The piece, penned by Julia Baird, was entitled “Positively Downbeat,” and the basic thesis was that positive thinking was actually making us all more miserable, rather than happier. As evidence, she sites a study from the General Social Survey by economists Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers of Wharton. They found, that despite three decades of economic growth in America (current tumultuous financial climate excepted), men and women are no happier now than they were in the seventies. To further hit home the point, the study found that women in 1972 were, on the average, actually more content than they are now.

Being a devotee of “positive thinking,” I was perplexed. How could it be that lighting a candle rather than cursing the darkness would make us more miserable? Intuitively, it made no more sense to me than a study that came out a few years ago, finding that low-calorie foods caused obesity. As in that report, something was obviously askew.

Ms. Baird references another author, Barbara Ehrenreich, who in her book, “Bright-Sided: How Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America,” calls positive thinking a “mass delusion.” Among other ideas, Ms. Ehrenreich argues that the foundation of positive thinking is the belief that you can will anything you like into happening: recovering from cancer, getting a promotion, becoming a millionaire.

It is in that statement that I found a foothold; believe as you wish, one must also accept that the universe will not change its rules to accommodate our whims, fantasies, or desires.
Positive thinking is not blind, naive, magical wishing. I cannot rub a crystal ball, site solemnly my affirmations, and assume that all will go exactly as I foresee. After all, I might fancy Sandra Bullock and myself alone on a tropical, romantic, desert island, while at the same time, her thoughts are, “not in my lifetime buster.” I can posit positive until the furrows in my brow are canals, and still move no closer to Ms. Bullock than the DVD I rent from the video store.
Positive thinking does not materialize nirvana for me. What it does is gives me a stake in my own outcomes; so my life becomes mine, for better or worse. Once I accept that I have the wherewithal to direct my actions, I am empowered, not anointed. With the assumption that I am a (mostly) capable sentient being with talents, ideas, and skills; also comes the responsibility of utilizing those gifts to the best of my ability.

An optimistic outlook will not guarantee a life of luxury or ease, it is simply a tool that allows us to deal with events better when they appear difficult and allow us to further enjoy them when they do not. Positive thinking transfers the impetus of action from “out there” to “in here.” But if “in here” continually seeks its happiness “out there,” it is a void that will never be filled.

Why wait?

2010-01-21T15:24:00.000-08:00

When I was a pup, a coveted “grown up treat” was staying up with my father to watch “Gunsmoke,” (the longest running weekly TV show in history; 655 episodes from 1955-1975 for trivia buffs).

The character of Festus Haggen, performed by Ken Curtis, was an unusual fellow, whose entire family may have possessed “fewer than 32 teeth among them,” as described by one reviewer. He was Illiterate, habitually incoherent, and fiercely loyal to Marshall Dillon, whom he considered one of his two best friends (the other was his mule). During one particularly grueling episode Festus exclaimed, “I wish it was Sunday so I could take a bath!”

Confused, I questioned my father, “Why can’t he take a bath today?”

“He only bathes on Sundays.”

“What if he gets dirty on Monday or Thursday?”

Replied my impatient father, “Do you want to watch the show or go to bed?” (Which was his not-so-subtle way of saying, “Be quiet.”)

As the world turns (no TV reference implied but I admit I’m pleased with utilizing the phrase), we arrive at yet another January, providing many an opportunity to put into action long delayed changes; saying, in effect, “I’m glad it’s the New Year so I can finally lose weight.”

I admire anyone beginning the punishing pathway to personal reconstruction; however, why the preoccupation with repeating a pattern every January first, only to give up like a nervous TV executive canceling a sitcom two weeks into its schedule? Yes, January makes sense; a new year is an excellent time to reaffirm direction for life’s coming chapter. Yet, it is merely another earthly revolution around its axis. Choose any of 365.

For example, Korean New Year, Hangul, is the first day of their lunar calendar, and the most important of the traditional Korean holidays, lasting three days. It usually occurs in February, providing a refreshed opportunity for resolve just as motivation and the hectic pace of the American holidays begin to wane. Why not start early February?

Or, what about Gudi Padwa, one of the most auspicious days of the Hindu year, believed to be the day that Lord Brahma created the world? In that culture, it is viewed as a time to wipe the slate clean and make a new start, arriving this year in April. Whether that allows us to delay our personal promises three months beyond January or have yet another opportunity to set them in motion is a function of one’s determination.

Should April slip past, Rosh Hashanah the beginning of Jewish New Year, is usually celebrated in September. The Chinese use a different time of year also. By setting one’s vows in the fall or spring, he or she could have a jump start on next year’s January rush. It might also be argued that since those two cultures have a combined 10,475 years on their calendars, compared to a little over 2000 for us, maybe autumn, rather than winter, is more apropos for change?

Selecting specific dates does not ensure the motivation for change will arrive per schedule. To rightly conquer one’s demons, experience the enthusiasm of new beginnings, and put to bed the regret of lost days, there is no time like this moment, right now. Should it pass, another opportunity immediately follows; no need to wait.

Trying Times

2009-12-10T11:16:00.000-08:00

I am trying to lose a few pounds (again).

I'd put odds on the fact that I'm not the only person in our sleepy burg with such a stated goal. Others are trying things too: stop smoking, be more active, spend more time with their families. As a whole, we TRY many things. The more important question is, "Are we DOING them?"

I wish I could remember which wise sage pointed out "trying" is "saying 'no' with grace."

A friend lost into your past surprises you by reappearing while you are squeezing cantaloupes at the grocery store. Pre-ordained ceremonial niceties commence, "How are your kids? What's your husband doing these days? Are you still working at the same place?" It's a pleasurable oasis of exchange with someone who used to be close. Yet, after the first few paragraphs, what remains to be said? An awkward silence slithers between you until finally you utter, "Let's get together and catch up. It's been too long."

She replies warmly, "I'll try and call you next week, OK?"

"Sounds great," you say before exchanging air kisses, and continuing on your mission of securing the finest produce. You know she won't call. You know you won't either.

She could have said, "No, I'm too busy," or "No, I'm not interested." Rather than such bluntness, she replies with the socially approved, milquetoast, "I'll try."

Underlying her intentions was, "No" - delivered with grace.

In those situations, "I'll try" is caring; it diffuses rough, confrontational, unkind exchanges. However, in so many other circumstances, we use "try" as a justification for our own unwillingness to change. After all, what if we give up or decide later that the objective takes too much effort? It hurts to boldly state, "I AM losing a few pounds," only to face questions at a later time when well-meaning friends inquire, "How's the diet going?" It saves face to be able to reply, "I tried, It didn't work," rather than, "I wasn't willing to do it," or "I changed my mind."

In reality, what is there to "try?" Am I actually eating less? Am I really more active? Select one: "yes" or "no." If I choose to not act on my own words, I am not "trying," I am simply "not doing."

Of late, I find myself stating proudly to anyone within earshot what I am "trying" to do. In actuality, I am setting the stage for the excuses I might use at another time.

"I am trying to lose weight," I say.

My friends nod in agreement, commiserating. "It's tough, isn't it?"

"Yes. But I'm really trying hard."

"Good for you," they say, "I admire you."

Yet, my scale has not moved; my waistline has not shrunk. The glaring unavoidable reality is I am not "trying," I am stagnating. The moment has arrived; it is time to stop "trying" and begin "doing."

The use of the word "try" is so addictive; it's tough to ratchet up the commitment to "I'm doing." But I'm trying.

Watch what you say

2009-09-16T16:40:00.000-07:00

It never fails to astonish me what difference a few words can make. By the language we use, we can inspire others to feats of heroic sacrifice, create joyful laughter, or change the direction of our own lives. Words matter.

With that as backdrop, Alexander Kuzmin, the 33-year-old mayor of Megion, a Siberian oil town with a population of 54,000, has ordered his bureaucrats to stop using expressions such as "I don't know" and "I can't." If they refuse, they will be hearing a different phrase: “Find another job.” In a world of customer service representatives who would rather point fingers than solve problems, you’ve just got to love this guy!

Kuzmin has banned these and 25 other expressions as a way to make his administration more efficient. Some of the other prohibited phrases are "It's not my job," "It's impossible," "I'm having lunch," and "There is no money." To reinforce the prohibition, a framed list of the banned expressions hangs on the wall next to his office.

"Before,” says one staff member, “It was so easy to say ‘I don't know.’ Now before reporting to the mayor we prepare several proposals on how the problem can be solved."

Isn’t that something? By being forced to avoid certain words, people accomplish more — or at least come up with alternatives.

When you analyze it, it makes great sense. After all, we think in words. Sure, we’re creative sorts; but the process by which we translate those flashes of intuitive brilliance into action is via the internal conversation ever present in our minds. The repetition of that exchange, over years, shapes our view of ourselves, how we react to outside events, and therefore the actions that become our lives. If one wants to permanently change the construction of his life, he must start with the building blocks: those internal words, thoughts.

Take for example the common belief, “I can’t lose weight.” If you, like, are forever fighting gaining weight, try this: Instead of saying “I can’t lose weight,” say out loud with conviction, “I can lose weight. I just don’t want to go through all the work it will take.” You will notice — virtually immediately — an uncomfortable feeling welling up inside you. Why? Words, thoughts, feelings, and beliefs are bound together tighter than a psychological Gordian knot. Disconnecting them is impossible.

I create my beliefs; I do so to make my life run smoother. If I repeat, “I can’t” enough times, I am absolved of the responsibility of trying, leaving time for other “more realistic” pursuits. If I change “I can’t” to, “I won’t,” I am forced — at least in my internal dialogue — to justify my motives, which can sometimes feel rather “messy.” It’s much easier to sidestep the responsibility; after all I’m already very busy.

When I say something different, I feel something different. Different emotions elicit different thoughts. New actions come from such untried thoughts. Life is the result of actions.

Say something different. Repeat often. Watch for new results.

The New Arrival

2009-08-05T16:50:00.000-07:00

It doesn't cry or use diapers, but rolls well and I can sit on it. OK, you guessed, I bought a new bicycle! I named it "Specialized Crossroads Sport" (it's easy to pick a name when it comes painted on it). It's a "comfort bike" because riding it is similar to riding a couch. (That is, if your couch rolls up hills and goes against the wind.)

Embarrassingly, by getting a new bike, I felt I was abandoning my old Schwinn Mesa. Of course, it didn't help when my wife said, "I can't believe you're retiring your old bike." Great, pangs of guilt; just what I needed! (Mental note to self: what does it say about me that I get emotionally attached to an inanimate object like a bike? Where is my therapist's phone number?)

First the back story: I'm not someone who does 100 mile cross country marathons, but I do find my way around town, utilizing my bicycle for commuting. I'll ride to meetings, drop off videos, or pick up some groceries. (If you go grocery shopping via bicycle, you save a heck of a lot of money also because you have to lug your goods on your back.) In essence, I do the usual "around town" errands on two wheels instead of four, saving me a few hundred dollars in gasoline, improving my health, and - as an added benefit - feeling I'm making a stand against Big Oil in some small manner.

A bicycle, just like a car (and us), requires regular looking after. Also as with a car, I am not able to provide said maintenance; so I take my metallic steed to the bike shop for adjustments. The last time I brought in my Schwinn, the "bike guy" said the whatchamacallit and the thingamabob were wearing out.

"Not a big deal," adds he (easy to say if you're mechanically apt - unlike me), "But the cost to replace it is more than the bike is worth. You might want to consider one of the newer 'city bikes.'"

City Bikes, I discover, are for people like me; designed for short trips and tasks, they are more comfortable and do not make you stretch as much to reach the handlebars (a big deal, let me tell you). Infused with such newly acquired comprehension, I found my soon-to-be new best buddy at a local bike shop and plunked down my credit card.

After the exchange, it occurred to me:

1. I spent almost $400 on a bike when I used to only buy $79 "specials."

2. $400 on something I actually utilize beats the heck out of $79 on something I won't.

Formerly, I bought all manner of exercise paraphernalia that was eventually relegated to an expensive spot for hanging clothes I did not put away. Now, I know this bike will get oodles of use. Change has really occurred; slowly, over time, and without notice, like it usually does. But it's definitely here.

However, please join me in a moment of silence for my old bike. May he find a wonderful new home.

One of these days

2009-07-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

One of these days, I'm going to get back on track with my diet. Really. I'll burst out of bed inspired, invigorated, and enthused. I'll clear the kitchen, throw out the junk food, pull out my motivational books, and start weighing, measuring, and monitoring anything that crosses my lips. No crumb of cuisine will be too trivial to escape my scrutiny. Yep, that's the way you lose weight you know. One of these days, boy am I going to get my eating act together! I'm just so busy right now.

Someday soon I've got to start exercising. I could wake up earlier, strap on some tunes, and stroll around the block. It's just so warm in bed, and I've been waiting for the rain to stop; my raincoat is so old, I'd look silly walking around town in it. I'm looking forward to a patch of blue sky so I can get back out there.

Just as soon as I can get around to it, I need to start a journal. I've been organizing my thoughts - even thinking about jotting down a few notes. I considered using a yellow-lined pad, but I really want to keep my thoughts and feelings for years. Recording something so important on any old bland notebook would be tacky, so I'm toying with buying a deluxe, leather-bound journal - maybe even an expensive pen. When I can put away a few dollars, I'm so there.

In a little while, I think I'll even go again to my meetings. It's just, well, you know how it is: holidays, travel, celebrations... who can control themselves with goodies everywhere? A slip-up here, some sloppiness there - boom - eight pounds! I almost went back last week, except it's so embarrassing to keep putting on the same pounds - so I'll knock them off first, and then head back. In a few weeks, it'll be a better time anyway.

One of these days real soon, I'll get it all together. I've been planning it a long time; I just want to make sure I do it right, no mess-ups allowed. So I'm waiting until life settles down before I get started. Let me tell you though, when the time is perfect, there's no stopping me.

I can feel it coming, one of these days, real soon, right about the corner...

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author lost 70 pounds over 14 years ago. He has a free motivational e-zine at www.THINspiration.com. His book, THE SHADE OF TREE IS THE VERY BEST SHADE THERE IS, is available at www.ShadeOfATree.com. He can be reached for presentations or comments at 707.442.6243 or scottq@THINspiration.com.

I believe

2009-05-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

I believe there is more to each of us than we could ever know.

I believe there is one Source connecting everything, everywhere, always. It sits not on high, separate, watching passively, as we meander through the parade of choices composing our lives’ stories. Instead it is inextricably intertwined within and around, nearer than our breath, no further than our thoughts.

I believe each and every thing we experience, feel, or think is born of that source. Every powerful spark of inspiration, tinge of emotion, or idea that will ever take shape is created of that place, centered deep within — and connecting — each of us. It is that innate connection we all share that has driven us from wanderers to farmers, thatched-leaf hut villages to expansive cities.

That force within us has guided us as we have fashioned astounding, spectacular, creations that can light the darkness, locate unseen ill-nesses, or further connect us: anywhere, anytime, with the tap of a SEND button. We hurl computerized, complex objects billions of miles across a darkened sky to land with pinpoint accuracy on far-flung worlds so distant that they are invisible to the naked eye — and would have remained unknown if not for others inspired to create by that exact same source we all share. We create because the Universe is in a constant state of creation. Being of it, we do the same.

We have founded treatments for afflictions and ailments from scurvy to smallpox, measles to polio. And someday, it is as sure as we exist that morning will dawn over a world devoid of cancer, AIDs, and Alzheimer’s. We know we will find cures; we are merely in the process of bridging the distance between inspiration and implementation.

When we believe, we do spectacular, astounding things — and will do far more. It is what we do because it is who we are.

Our greatness has names, some known to many: Mother Theresa, Albert Einstein, Miguel Hidalgo, Fa-Ngoum, Martin Luther King, Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha. Some are lesser known: you, the store clerk, the daycare worker, and me. Yet, within each is the precise unchanging power that created all who have come before and who will ever be.

Since we are part of the universe, we must be infused with the same stuff that created our rivers, mountains, oceans, and even our Mother Earth. Moreover, beyond that, the same universal force that envelops each of us, at all times, wherever we are, wraps the furthest star in the darkest night. Therefore, when we gaze far into the nighttime sky, we see some of ourselves. We cannot be separated from that which created us; it is denial of what we are, and what we can be.

I believe all this. And because I do, I am convinced that a force so pow-erful, so creative, so expansive to do all this, would never put anyone on this planet doomed to fail, whether her goal may be to change the future of millions or simply to lead a happier life for herself.

I felt we needed to be reminded. I sure do.

Taking The Pledge

2009-04-29T20:04:00.000-07:00

The pledge is all the thing; apparently, everyone's doing it.

Searching the Internet, I discovered 7,570,000 entries for "Take the Pledge." As examples, one can abandon old-fashioned round light bulbs in favor of newer CFL curly neon bulbs by taking the "Energy Star Pledge." According to their website, 549,033 bulbs have replaced! I'm a little concerned about that count however. For instance, if a bulb burns out, do they subtract one from the count?

Another organization requests we take an "End the Stroke Pledge." I cannot envisage anyone in favor of strokes, but question the necessity of having to swear allegiance publicly to ending them. Then again, I guess it cannot be harmful. Count me in.

One over-the-counter medicine asks us to pledge to create "germ-free defense zones" while also pledging to use their hand sanitizer. Personally, I think that's two pledges. It's also a little confusing; as illustration, am I in violation if I eradicate germs but use another product? I am not skilled in pledge-construction but do believe well worded pledges are devoid of loopholes.

A dedicated cluster of Macintosh computer users requests others not boot their computers into the Windows operating platform. I use a Macintosh. I didn't even know I could boot into Windows. Maybe I took that pledge without knowing.

I even stumbled across a group dedicated to improving our planet's atmosphere by asking cows to pledge to stop passing gas. How would one know if a cow made such a commitment; beyond that, who would be responsible for monitoring the contract? That would seem a rather unpleasant assignment.

So, in the interest of better dieting, I have devised - your guess it - a pledge. Put down any tempting sweets, raise your right hand, and begin:

In the interest of better health, I (fill in your name) hereby pledge to...

Forgo all sugars and artificial sweeteners, eating only unprocessed, fresh, non-packaged foods
Engage the services of a personal trainer who will ensure that I wake up three hours earlier, meditate extensively about better health, stretch extensively, and then finish with a 90 minute aerobic work out every day
Record all food consumption in a food diary - but only after weighing it on a top-of-the-line electronic scale that computes fiber, fat, protein, sodium, and sugars
Hire a top-end, live-in chef to ensure all food is prepared in the most healthful manner present nutritional science allows
Read every food label, cross-referencing it with a portable food index that to be carried at all times, double-checking to make sure that I consume no trans-fats, very few calories, and a great deal of fiber (not being cows, we need not worry about fiber's side effects)
Disregard the previous ridiculous commitments and make one small lasting change in my routine to eat a little less, walk a little more, and enjoy steady progress of a realistic program

Reclaiming her life

2009-04-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

In line at the coffee house, she stood leaning on her left leg to prop up the baby on her hip. He sucked noisily on a yellow pacifier, watching over mom's shoulder as people queued behind her, huge blue eyes with an intense open stare greeting each new patron. The canopied stroller was therefore empty of its occupant. An SUV of child carrying conveyances, it was constructed to withstand the impact of an army of toddlers. Currently however, it served as transport, loaded with an assortment of quilted belongings, stuffed toys, a cell phone, bottles of baby food, and several zip lock bags distended with a plethora of toasted oats, wafers, and carrots.

On the opposite side of her infant son was her three-year-old daughter; clinging fiercely to mommy's leg for protection, burying her young face in her mom's thigh whenever anyone made eye contact. From her small hand, dragging across the tile floor was a white, weary, worn blanket, emblazoned with a smiling penguin.

Mom was only 32. Yet with her long dark hair hastily hoisted above her head in an elastic band, a gray oversized sweatshirt with "UCLA" (and numerous drool stains) across the front, and faded, fraying black sweatpants, some days she felt as well worn as her attire.

She retained an attractive shape (albeit heavier from bearing two children), but could still "pretty up" quite nicely provided she had the time - or desire. She adored her husband; he was a kind, supportive, gentle man, who appreciated her for whom she was. Their financial situation required him to work long hours on the road, leaving her to attend to the house and the children. When he was in town, and the kids were finally in bed, and the maintenance of home chores at long last completed, romance ranked low compared to sleep. So neither of them spent as much time concerned about appearance as they had in earlier years.

Staying at home with her kids was vital, and she enjoyed it. It also provided her life with a value that working at the insurance company never could. Yet, everything bears a price. When you take care of everyone else, who takes care of you? The lack of self-attention was taking its toll and she felt it heavily.

She used to jog each morning; now she changed diapers, washed sheets, and prepared meals; always tasting while she cooked. In those all-too-fleeting, precious, rare moments of solitude, she escaped with a novel and a bag of chips. Every afternoon - just so she could get out - she scooped up the kids, walked to this place and ordered a cookie for them and a muffin for herself.

This afternoon, while the kids napped, she noticed her shape in the mirror and suddenly felt very old. In that instant came the spark of change. "Just take a step," she told herself. "Not everything, anything. It's a beginning."

When the clerk asked for her order, the whirlwind of thoughts collapsed into silence. She replied, "Juice, yogurt, non-fat milk, and a diet soda."

With that simple action, she felt alive again.

I am not

2009-03-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

I am Scott "Q" Marcus, whomever - or whatever - that is. Despite my belief that I think I know who I am, I admit to periodic doubt.

One thing of which I am certain however, is I am not a number.

Uncountable intertwined characteristics and traits make me "Me." On the simplest level, I am human, gender: male. I, with a couple billion of my closest friends, arrived on this small, ocean covered, awe-inspiring, nurturing planet via a chaotic and organized chain of events stretching so far back in time, that the very concept of that many millennia is beyond ability to imagine - even though I am gifted at imagining incredible things. I am a miracle of nature, a product of creation. I am: Life.

I am NOT a number.

I am a father and a husband. In our society, at this instant in history, those titles foster responsibilities ranging from the important: leaving a better world for our children (we're not performing well with that currently); to the mundane: I must shave every day (except weekends if my wife doesn't object).

I am a thinking, analytical soul. In my mind, I can articulate important concepts and - once in a while, when I'm very fortunate - even inspire others. Trillions of sparks criss-cross the synapses of my brain, flickers of my thoughts: the fate of the universe; the state of the nation; the choices on television.

I have philosophies, beliefs, and values. With those as guideposts, I have developed a roadmap that I presume (and pray) will lead me well to wherever is my final destination. From time to time I stumble and fall, to date always rising yet again. Therefore, I apparently must be determined, sometimes downright stubborn. Yet, I am also confused and wise, excited and bored, happy and sad, loving and lost, frightened and brave, teaching and taught, leader and follower, almost always - hopeful. All of these descriptors, words, and adjectives, are accurate in their portrayal of me, as are numerous others.

But I never describe myself via numerals. Neither does anyone else.

When friends greet me, they do not shake my hand, grasping warmly my shoulder, and say, "Hey 179, how are ya?" Instead, we hug, the warmth of his or her body held close to mine in a loving embrace. It is my name, not a number, spoken affectionately by someone about whom I deeply care.

They do not call to me by what shows on the morning scale.

I am not described as "179," "187", or - during particularly painful periods of my life - "250." My value, who I am, what I do, my legacy, does not fluctuate with the number of pounds reflected by what I ate nor by how many miles I jogged. That one number, my weight, although a description of a single, visible, component of WHAT I am, is virtually insignificant in the grand scale of WHO I am and what I am capable of accomplishing.

We are far more astounding than what any number, anywhere could ever make known.

2009-03-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

The New England Journal of Medicine, in a study of over 12,0000 people, suggests that obesity may be contagious, like a common cold. Apparently, when a study participant's friend became obese, that participant had a 57 percent greater chance of becoming obese himself. In pairs of close friends, one person becoming obese meant his friend had a 171 percent greater chance of following suit. "You are what you eat isn't the end of the story," summed up study co-author James Fowler. "You are what you and your friends eat."

As a child, if I insisted on going outside without a jacket, my mother warned, “If you get sick, don’t complain to me.” How will this new news play in today’s health-conscious world?

“Mommy, can I play at Scott’s house?”

“Isn’t he the overweight boy down the street?”

“Yes, he’s very nice. He’s got cool toys.”

“I don’t think I want you to go there sweetie. You might catch a case of chubby.”

“I won’t mommy. Please.”

“If you do, don’t expect me to let out your seams.”

I don’t wish to poke fun, but can one be “infected” with obesity? The research, in my mind, simply points out the old adage, “Birds of a feather flock together.”

As illustration, someone who enjoys triathlon training and a buddy who is an avid video game enthusiast might enjoy each other’s personalities, and share similar views on politics and morality. Yet, would they hook up?

“Hey, Chris. Want to get together this weekend?”

“Sounds great. What shall we do?”

“We could grab something to eat, go to the mall. What do you think?”

“Sounds fun, but I’ve got my exercise regimen. How about we go to the pool first?”

“I can’t swim.”

“What about cycling?”

“Don’t have a bike.”

“We could go for a run.”

“I’ll just meet you there.”

As Tevye said in Fiddler on the Roof, “A fish may love a bird. But where would they build a house?”

It is a function of human nature to feel best with people who are most like us and do as we do.

When I say, “you know?” I’m reassured when my friend says, ‘Yeah, I do.” That’s why we’re buds. If one enjoys sedentary, high-caloric activities, it stands to reason that so too will those around her. If she begins jogging, she didn’t catch a dose of “fitness;” she changed a routine. Desiring to share that newfound interest, she will seek out others of similar mentality.

The biggest surprise to me was that this surprised them. Most people recognize that smoking and drinking are influenced by group standards, but apparently that realization is relatively new for obesity where so many still consider it a moral failing or merely a clinical condition. Obesity, like so much of life, is largely a function of behavior patterns. To change it, we must change what we do, not necessarily with whom we do it.

So — what the heck — try taking a walk with a friend. It couldn’t hurt, and, who knows, you indeed might catch something: a healthy habit.

Walking the walk

2009-01-09T19:07:00.000-08:00

Exercise was never my long suit. For decades, the only activities in which I regularly engaged were jumping to conclusions, running myself ragged, and pushing my luck.

Over recent years I have modified my sedentary ways by adding walking and bike riding into my schedule. I have even figured out methods to do most of my in-city errands sans automobile, which does require some ingenuity; a large, sturdy backpack; and better time management. Payoffs however, include improved health, a sense of global pride by helping to some extent to heal our planet, extensive gasoline savings, and an enhanced ego (as many find it way cool to see a middle-age guy in a tie riding a bike; causing them to lavish praise upon my person, which I demurely accept - as to not offend of course).

Lately, I had to ratchet up the activity as the aging process and slower metabolism are having an expansive effect on my midsection. To further that aim, I established a "fitness center" in our house. (OK, to be honest, it's really a TV, DVD player, and three exercise videos in the guest room; but c'mon, you were impressed when I called it "fitness center," weren't you?) Weight loss remained elusive so I reluctantly decided that in order to achieve results, I must actually WATCH the videos and perform the routines (as opposed to leaving them inertly stacked on the bookcase). Grudgingly therefore, I dragged my sleepy body into the guest room, - er, fitness center - and have endeavored to emulate Billy Blanks in his kickboxing routine, Tae-Bo.

Progress has been made; I have advanced from inept to clumsy to awkward, and have - believe it or not - started looking forward to morning practice. This newfound over-enthusiasm drove me a sinew too far, the result: a pulled muscle.

In earlier times, such discomfort would have been a welcome rationale to abandon my schedule (having been known to forgo previous routines because of broken shoelaces). Yet, something shifted; instead of attempting to justify inactivity, I turned my thoughts toward, "What can I still do?"

My pulled tendon had not become a barrier; rather, it became a source of pride. I'm not just speaking of how, when queried, "Why are you limping," I could assume a manly, macho, Bruce Willis, swagger and reply, "Pulled a muscle during my workout." Of much more import was the fact that I was not looking for excuses to quit, rather seeking methods to endure.

I consistently profess, "My health is my highest priority," while finding countless validations to avoid the steps necessary to act as such. "I don't have time." "It costs too much." "There's always tomorrow." Such internal dissonance feels plain lousy, generating feelings of hypocrisy and shame; burdens less visible, but equally as weighty, as a few extra pounds.

It is worthy of note that soreness in my quadriceps generated healing in my thoughts. No longer am I only "talking the talk," I am proudly "walking the walk" (albeit with a limp).

Giving thanks in tough times

2008-11-27T11:44:00.000-08:00

"May you live in fascinating times" is an old curse; the logic being if one chronicles history, "fascinating times" were jam-packed with upheaval. Turbulent, troublesome, frightening, epoch-making periods; anyone experiencing them would be upset, frightened, and anxious.

I point this out because, with the way the world is, one might make a case that we are currently experiencing "fascinating times," and that future historians will find the initial piece of the 21st century to be chock-full of tumult, worthy of study for generations yet to come. For them, that may be well and good, yet for us in the present, I don't think I stand alone when I pray we figure out soon how to get along a little better.

Giving thanks in such chaotic times is not simple. It feels difficult and trivial to find positives when all around seems urgent. However, to do so, requires a refocus on what one has, rather than a sadness of the way it is not. Saying "Thank you," lightens the heart, and loosens life's burdens - if only for a moment, making living worthwhile. Now, more than ever, it is essential to express gratitude for what one has. We are still blessed in many ways.

I can be thankful to sit at a table with family and friends, sharing food, conversation, and stories. We will laugh at where we have been, even if we disagree about where we are headed. We are not a perfect family unit; but we are what we are. I give thanks, and send a prayer to those less well off.

I am grateful to live where I do. Sure, I complain about excess rain and a hidden sun. I lament the dreary fog in the morning, and the wind in the afternoon. Yet, on the grand perspective, this patch of Mother Earth is no less than stunning. Endless forests of trees on majestic mountains caress the heavens; rushing, raging, rivers cut through strong stone canyons in their never ending race to become part of a breathtaking vista of world's greatest ocean. I reside in a postcard photograph; is that cool or what?

Contrary to how I was raised, I taught my children, "Do what you love, the money will follow." Although it took me four decades to heed my own advice, it has worked out and I am uplifted by what I do. While others never leave a squalid village, and have no hope, I have traveled far, seen much, and spoken to many. I am again grateful.

I am not alone, residing in a community, a true enclave of people who greet me with handshakes and "hellos." We still ask about each other's children. We share personal successes and setbacks. I have no interest in living elsewhere; I am gratified to be where I am.

My story is different than yours; each of us travels his own path. However, it is my purest intent that in my appreciation, I kindle within you a smile or joyful thought that you will share with others, lightening your day and theirs.

Saying thank you might not change a life. However, it sure won't hurt.

Difficult Until it Isn't

2008-11-19T19:31:00.000-08:00

Despite contrary opinion, losing weight is not hard to do; it's amazingly simple:

Eat a little less than you want
Wait five minutes before you start
Walk a little more than you would
Focus on today (tomorrow will take care of itself)
Repeat process until desired results are obtained

Voila! No pills. No bizarre food concoctions. No expensive plans. Simple. To the point. Successful.

As stated, it's not difficult.

Why then do Americans spend $33 billion a year on a process that can be outlined in fewer than 50 words? Here's the thing: Losing weight is not hard; changing one's mind to accept reality can be another issue.

I offer my own experience as case in point. I am no Johnny-Come-Lately to the rigors of dieting; having been on weight loss programs since before my memories were formed. As an overweight child who wore "husky" pants and XXL shirts, my mother served skim milk in (non-sugary) cereal and fruit for dessert. Doctors tried to shame me into losing weight; again and again forcing upon me those purple mimeographed pages overloaded with food lists, calorie counts, and dieting "secrets" (which never worked). Upon reaching adulthood, well-intentioned friends pointed out the health risks of obesity: heart disease, diabetes, and stroke; attempting to nudge me toward change. My life has been forged and melded in the furnace of dieting. I know this stuff better than the back of my slightly chubby hand.

So, why do I STILL have trouble sticking with it?

The answer? We make the process more difficult than necessary, gunking it up with all manner of artificial mental barriers and obstacles. Instead of accepting what must be done, I lament the process of change; stubbornly hanging on to the ineffective, seeking to finagle my way around what is required. I devise excuses for not waking in time to exercise. I tell myself, "just this once won't hurt" while nibbling leftovers from the refrigerator. I protest the higher price of healthier foods, opting instead for the long-term cost of greasy, crunchy, fried bags of chips.

Our thoughts are the problem, not the diets. We put ourselves at odds with our own best interest. At day's end, it is usual to want to "shut down," and unwind. Close the curtains. Turn off your mind. "Relax," coos the seductive call of well-worn behaviors, "You can start tomorrow."

"The price of freedom is eternal vigilance," said our third president. To obtain independence from the tyranny of destructive habits requires ongoing diligent effort, as anything of value does. Yet, it is equally accurate - and too often forgotten - that when we pursue our passion, treat our bodies with respect, engage our better selves, and witness the results of those actions, there is no comparison to the elation, joyfulness, and euphoria that floods our soul.

At that point, the whole thing almost seems too easy.

The human touch

2008-11-05T17:42:00.001-08:00

Since I was a boy, I have been fascinated by whiz-bang, LED-illuminated, state-of-the-art technology.

To mollify my inner child, I installed a home computer network and theater. My wife and I could actually talk about the groceries or pet care, but it's way cooler via email. Of course, I own a "smart-phone," one of those cellular devices that does everything (when it actually works). But, the pièce de résistance of my electronic empire is an all-encompassing, entirely programmable, tip-to-toe customizable, universal remote control - the Supreme Sultan of all apparatus electronic. Settled in the couch-throne, one can power up the television, adjust the surround sound, and commence the evening's entertainment with a twiddle of the thumb. All hail "Technology King!"

The irony is when all the electronic bloops and beeps cease, I resort to an extremely low-tech pastime to soothe me: I wander to a coffee house, order a cup of Joe, and peruse a newspaper. The tactile sensation of newsprint, coupled with the reverberation of others exchanging conversations at nearby tables, and the sensation of a warm mug in my hands, comforts me.

It's reassuring that still nothing replaces for me human closeness.

Recognizing me at the window table, the slightly overweight gentleman approached to introduce himself, "I read your column. I admire how you've maintained your weight. I wish I could be more like you."

Gratitude from people one does not know is exceptionally humbling, and I am always caught off guard. Yet, on that date, that particular morning, that moment in time, he was a gift.

Despite my apparent "victory" over obesity, the siren tug of late-night eating, super sized portions, and sugary treats does not fall deaf upon my ears. It is - even now, decades later - an unending battle. Neither smarter nor better than anyone else facing these demons, I am simply fortunate enough to have this platform to express what so many feel.

Stress still triggers me to eat (as does so much else) and the previous day had more than its share, so I camped in front of the refrigerator, until finally, at day's end, I forced myself to bed, angry and disgusted for having succumbed yet again. I berated myself, doubting my successes, ashamed of my weakness.

As an experienced veteran of these wars, I have learned to - despite sadness and resentment - quickly regain my footing and force myself into healthier behaviors as soon as possible.

That is the back-story that led me to this place; I was seeking to reclaim a sense of normalcy, something I felt I had destroyed the night previous.

He could not have known that, nor how encouraging were his comments. His alternate view of me helped more than he will ever know. If he is reading this, thank you. If my words inspired you half as much as you helped me, I am truly honored.

Sometimes, when one least expects it - but most requires it - you get what you need. Hang in there; we're in this together.

By any other name...

2008-10-22T18:14:00.000-07:00

Words matter.

What we say to ourselves in our quiet spaces gives birth to actions. Life is the consequences of those events. If we wish to alter the course of our existence, to change its path, or to enjoy more the process, we must begin with the thoughts that steer it.

For example, let us take the overused, beaten down, threadbare expression: "I'm going on a diet." At the point when the peoples of all nations unite in solidarity and appoint me Head Honcho in charge of Global Linguistics, I shall ban the expression; I find its limited options lead to broken promises, loss of joy, low self esteem, and eventual failure.

In the stark and barren world where one "goes on a diet," it automatically implies one must - at some time - go off a diet. All is black and white; there is no gray; only "on" or "off," "good" or "bad," "following the diet" or "cheating." The gradations of in-between, which fill most of life, do not exist as, in that thought process, one cannot be "a little off" anymore than one can be "a little pregnant."

This perfect/awful thinking supposedly drives us to be perfect, which is an impossibility, so we inevitably label ourselves as "failures." Those of us who are recovering perfectionists know well the mantra of the dieter who has crossed to the dark side: "As long as I blew it, I might as well really blow it! I can start again tomorrow." (or "Monday," or "next year"...) Once I have failed, I might as well get all of the "failing" out of my system, cleaning myself so I will be ready for to be perfect next time (ignoring the fact that it too will end up the same way).

Success in anything is rarely cut and dried. Rather the definition varies from one person to the next; sometimes even within oneself, depending on circumstances. Success is fluid; it requires parsing and nuance. More times than not, it is a two-step forward, one-step backward progression. In the sphere of success, one does not have it one day, lose it the next, regain it the third. She is more successful than she is not, learns from mistakes, makes adjustments - and therefore moves in a generally successful direction. Successful people have setbacks; the difference is they don't see them as the end of the line.

Only in mathematics and science, can lines can be clearly drawn. Two plus two will always equal four. In matters related of the heart and mind, crystal clear, straight-line delineation is not possible. We are not rigid robotroids fitting precision machined, pre-ordained molds. One cannot apply a formula to us and expect an exact result. We are too complex - and too human - for that.

The nice thing about that is if we accept that we will make mistakes, and can find a way to label them not as "failures," but rather "feedback," we can adjust, change, and even excel.

Words do matter; choose them wisely.

Drowning at 35,000 feet

2008-09-10T17:59:00.000-07:00

A healthy daily amount of water consumption is 48 ounces or more. Lately, I had been neglecting that requirement; the result being I was feeling a scooch "bulky." Therefore, be it resolved that while on my recent travels, I would drink eight glasses of water a day.

Whether in restaurants, at meetings, or on airplanes, I opted for the clear stuff. I am certain coffee and soda companies the country over were feeling a hit in their profits, but I felt proud for taking care of myself.

The downside about drinking so much water is the more one drinks; the more one's body needs to drink. After a short period of hydration, one's innards feel like desert sand if he goes a short time without water. The upshot is I began feeling antsy if I didn't have a water bottle within reach 24/7. Of course, another byproduct of so much water is an excessive need to visit the restroom (or as I refer to it, "The Weight Reduction Cubicle").

With that as back-story, I boarded a three-hour flight to Houston.

Immediately upon reaching cruising altitude, I rose to use the lavatory, traversing the entire plane to get to its aft location. Upon returning, I recognized I was already thirsty and requested a new bottle of water, which did well to quench my thirst... and re-trigger the urge. Being near the front of the plane, each repetition of "the long walk," meant that I passed all the other passengers, leading me to feel self-conscious.

I was convinced they were whispering to seat mates, "What's up with this guy? You think he's got a thing about airplane bathrooms?"

Vanity and negative self-talk overruled by biology, I again unclicked my seat belt and strode back to the lavatory, trying to avoid eye contact with the rows of flyers that had seen me parade the aisle twice moments earlier. The attendant smiled as if we were old friends, and opened the door for me as I approached.

Again, back to my seat, feeling parched. I resisted the urge for more refreshment, thinking if camels could traverse the vast expanses of dunes in North Africa, I could sit in a 737 for a couple of hours.

Sadly, I was mistaken. After repeating my "drink and release" pattern yet again, I was becoming intensely embarrassed and tried to sneak my way into the first class cabin for the next round, assuming upper crust folks would pay no heed to one of the riff-raff using their lavatory. The attendant gently pointed out, "for security purposes, main cabin passengers must use the facilities in the back of the plane," and steered me to this too-familiar landscape.

I wanted to counter her comment by asking how my small bladder could affect the safety of a 72,000-pound aircraft but in light of current airline security measures, decided against it.

As I walked yet again the long aisle, smiling awkwardly at the other passengers, I attempted to console myself with the thought, "at least I'm getting my exercise."

The World's Greatest Newest Super Amazing Diet!

2008-09-03T18:03:00.000-07:00

"I lost 18 pounds my first 24 hours while still enjoying chocolate, French fries, and beer! The best thing is it's been a whole day and I haven't gained back a pound!"

Hard to believe, isn't it? Like millions of women, Zelda Smith, always fought the battle of the bulge.

"Since I was young, I was chubby. Other kids made fun of me, teasing me and embarrassing me on the playground. As an adult, it only got worse."

"It didn't matter what I did, weight just kept piling on. I tried everything, switching to low-fat foods, watching what I ate; I even stopped using chocolate syrup as salad dressing. At meals, I tried limiting myself to only what could fit on one plate, never going back for seconds. My sister - who's never been supportive - scoffed. She said, 'Zelda, if you're going to do the one-plate thing, I don't think you should use a platter. It defeats the purpose.' Do you see what I've had to put up with?"

"But I didn't let her deter me; I was determined! So I adjusted my lifestyle. I went to the gym; I even got out of my car and went inside once. At home I exercised regularly - ten minutes once a month, just like clockwork. I found other ways to increase my activity. I started walking to the mailbox instead of driving; my husband really appreciated that because he found it hard to get in the front door when I left the car parked on the porch. Sometimes, when I was really inspired, I even put down the remote control and walked all the way over to the TV to shut it off. It's not easy to change your life, but when something's worth it, you sacrifice."

"Still, I was frustrated by the lack of results. So I went to one of those weight loss support groups. I thought I was going to die the first time I walked in the meeting, listening to that skinny young thing talk about how she lost weight by using some silly fad diet involving eating right and exercising. I thought, 'No way this will work!' But, I took the materials home and bought a food scale and put them right over there - in that drawer - where they've been for six months. You would think after that long, I would have lost something, wouldn't you? See, nothing works."

"Then, I discovered the new Placebo Sham Diet with miracle additive Cleanyouout! Wow! I take one pill every hour with a cup of castor oil, six raw eggs, and their patented ingredient, "laxital," and - Voila! - the weight just drops off you. Of course, it helps to be near the restroom when it takes effect, but 18 hours a day in the bathroom is a small price to pay for a size five body. Someday soon, I'm hoping to get out of here and show it to everyone!"

Past my twenties

2008-08-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

Recently, I had a revelation: I am no longer 22 years old.

There were obvious signs prior to this new dawning. For example, of late, in order to read small print, I must either remove my glasses or post the document across the room. Conversely, I must also use the "zoom" feature on my computer monitor to increase font size for virtually everything on screen.

I also must admit a tinge of guilt in continuing to list "brown" as my hair color on driver's license applications. Rather, "gray with a small bit of brown remaining" is more appropriate. (Since there is not enough space to use this accurate description, I rationalize "brown" as being as honest as possible.)

Oh yes, one other indicator that I am not 22 is that I am the biological father of a 23-year-old. Even the most forward thinking and mature 22-year-old would be hard pressed to have 23-year-old offspring.

Alas, despite this ever-growing chorus of facts, the dawning of my age did not fully appear until I weighed myself last week. I have been trying to knock off another six pounds and have stalled for some time. (OK, to be honest "some time" is approximately five years...) As I stood on the scale, glaring at the wretched red LED flashing between my toes in its hateful block numbers, a river of rushing thoughts coursed through me. In that cacophonous cascade of cognizance, one thought rose above all others: "I'm as diligent as I was 30 years ago but my weight won't budge. Back then; I lost three pounds a week! It's not fair!"

As I stomped from the scale (heading directly for the kitchen), a thunderbolt realization crashed through me: "It is not 30 years ago." No longer a young man of 22, I am now middle-aged. The rules for twenty-somethings do not apply.

Instead of trying to understand the ins and outs of a healthy weight and diet for a 52-year-old, I waste energy lamenting the fact that it is not as easy as it was "back then." How much precious time have I thrown away complaining about what no longer is rather than accepting the realities of what actually can be?

"I've never had to work so hard to lose weight." "I've always eaten this way." "I didn't have to work out when I was younger."

The thoughts and ideas we hold from earlier days were accurate and appropriate - in earlier days. But time moves forever backward into history, leaving us hostage to it, or empowered by the opportunities of the present.

This is neither a treatise against getting older nor a complaint about the travails of aging. Mostly - as long as my health holds out - I welcome the wisdom and peace of being an older man. But instead of grousing that I cannot lose weight like a 22-year old, it makes more sense to learn the rules for a 52-year-old - at least until I'm 53.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds more than 12 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at www.TheEatingCycle.com, scottq@scottqmarcus.com, or 707.442.6243.

New Diet Pill

2008-08-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

Alli, manufactured by GlaxoSmithKline, is the first over-the-counter diet pill approved by the Food and Drug Administration, and soon graces the shelves of a drug store near you.

As those of us who diet reluctantly accept, there is no magic bullet for weight loss (sigh...). "People's hopes are ridiculously high when it comes to diet pills. That leads to disappointment and bad word of mouth," says an industry analyst. The VP of GlaxoSmithKline's weight control division points out, "We've done everything to go out of our way to be honest." They are trying to establish realistic expectations for this new entry into the diet market by providing a complete picture.

I say, "Kudos to them."

Let's take a closer look. In clinical trials, the FDA says people using alli lost an additional two to three pounds for every five lost via diet and exercise. It does this by blocking the absorption of about one-quarter of consumed fat, which passes through the body, potentially resulting in loose stools. Moreover, about half the patients experienced side effects, including leakage and oily discharges.

Hmm, if that image doesn't make you want to eat less, what will?

In order to avoid these unpleasant effects, GlaxoSmithKline stresses keeping meals under 15 grams of fat. They even recommend starting the program when one has a few days off work, or, as an alternative, bring an extra pair of pants to the office.

I picture office cooler conversations:

"Hey, Scott, when you gonna start that new diet pill?"

"As soon as I can buy new pants."

"Wow! Positive attitude dude! Planning to lose so much weight and be skinny?"

"No, it's just, well, um, er, oh, never mind - read the label..."

Alli's "starter kit" includes a food journal, healthy eating guide and a fat and calorie reference. Its marketing exhibit features plates with sensible portion sizes, and a web site with an emphasis on diet and exercise.

The monthly cost of taking alli, based on three times a day as suggested, will be between $60 and $75.

Let's recap shall we?

We have a pill with some relatively unpleasant potential repercussions. I mean, having to lug around an extra set of pants in the event of "side effects" seems a tad burdensome. I could be wrong; it could just be me.

More to the point, users consume less fat, record meals in a food journal, learn sensible portions, and exercise more. I sincerely applaud GlaxoSmithKline's in devising a balanced, healthy weight loss approach.

However, will alli sell? After all, if I'm eating less, tracking my food, lowering my fat, and increasing my activity, why do I need a pill?

If you could do anything, what would you do?

2008-07-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

OK, here's the question. Supposed someone came to you and said he could guarantee you would never again have to battle weight (or whatever your bad habit is). You would be "cured" of all cravings. You would never want to go off your program. However, the price would be that for the rest of you life, you had to follow a very specific, unyielding, exact program and could not waver, no matter what the circumstances. If you made one slip, you were off the program and regained all your weight and could not start again, would you give up all choice to achieve that?

Fat on the inside

2008-06-25T18:12:00.000-07:00

The most recent news from the diet world was too much for me to handle. Should you therefore be strolling the street and find small pieces of gray matter, be not alarmed for they are merely remnants of my brain, which hath exploded.

After decades of considering my ultimate goal to have the number stated on my driver's license be my honest-to-goodness weight - and actually achieving it - I have recently learned that one's weight is NOT the indicator of whether or not he is overweight. In case you didn't catch that, I shall repeat; not being overweight does not mean you are thin. (In fairness, it is my duty to warn you that this is the part that causes healthy brains to explode; tread warily.)

This revelation is based on a study yanked directly from Superman's Bizarro World. Dr. Jimmy Bell, a professor in London who was lead researcher, sums it up as such, "Being thin doesn't automatically mean you're not fat."

To me, one's weight NOT being an indicator of thinness is illogical; similar to, "having a full head of hair does not mean one is not bald." Or how about, "How much money one possesses has no relationship to one's wealth." Regrettably, in this brave new upside down skinny-is-fat world in which we find ourselves, 'tis true.

After conducting nearly 800 MRI scans to create "fat maps," which show where people store internal fat, Dr. Bell discovered people who maintain their weight through diet rather than exercise are likely to have major deposits of internal fat, even if outwardly slim. "The whole concept of being fat needs to be redefined," said Bell, who found that as many as 45 percent of women with normal BMI scores (a standard measurement of obesity) - and as many as 60 percent of men - had excessive levels of internal fat. The study refers to these individuals as "TOFIs": "thin outside, fat inside."

TOFIs existed even among professional models. Bell commented, "The thinner people are, the bigger the surprise." Yeah, I'd say that falls in the understatement department.

I picture a size zero supermodel strolling down the catwalk weighing a waif-like 79 pounds, able to be blown over by a sneeze. In the back room, Dr. Bell and company are making "fatty fatty two by four" jokes. Can you see how confusing this new reality can be?

If the scale is no longer the determinant of a healthy weight, I envision future health-conscious households having a room loaded with extensive equipment. In addition to a scale and exercise bike, I foresee a food scale, pedometer, stopwatch, BMI chart, body fat percentage calculator, portable MRI machine, hydrostatic weighing tank, DEXA machine (dual energy X-ray absorptiometry), calipers (for those emergency quick pinch tests), and a bioelectrical impedance scale.

Of course, after getting one's life in order to this level of detail, he or she will die of exhaustion. But then again, who knows? Maybe a future study will show that being dead isn't necessarily an indicator of failing health.

I'm proud of you

2008-06-04T19:20:00.000-07:00

His energy reminded me of a tightly coiled spring, overloaded with caffeine, bouncing on a trampoline. Of course, most three-year-old children do not walk in an even, orderly, refined gait, and he was no exception; bouncing and bounding in a generally forward direction, yet so easily distracted by the zip and zing of the airport. Although secured to mom by a strap attached to this belt, she, pushing a stroller, periodically reached out and pulled the young boy closer as they walked and he strayed.

"Look," she said as they climbed aboard the moving walkway connecting the terminals, "It's a magic sidewalk."

For an instant, the short redheaded lad analyzed the metallic, moving, pathway, and - with some gentle guidance from his mother - hesitantly clamored on board. The young family stayed to the right so other, more hurried travelers, could pass.

"Him's my baby brother," the young man told everyone who walked past, pointing into the stroller. "His name is Lance."

The scurrying line of travelers, tugging rolling suitcases behind them as they dashed to planes, showed a variety of responses. "He's very handsome," said a smiling, matronly woman with a floral design carry-on. "That's nice," commented a dapper-dressed man in a pinstripe suit, carrying a computer case. Many simply smiled; others ignored the small lad.

When no one was in earshot, he studied Baby Lance, reaching into the stroller and rearranging the blankets of his infant brother.

"Him shouldn't be cold," he told his mom. "He could get sick."

She smiled and re-straightened the blankets, telling the young caregiver, "Thank you. You're a wonderful brother. You take very good care of Lance. Do you know I'm very proud of you?"

He hugged her leg. She patted his head. The walkway rolled on.

I was taken back to my own mother, who always reminded me of her pride in me, even in our last conversation. With her gone, it dawned on me that we don't hear, "I'm proud of you," so much as we get older.

We are quick to condemn our errors - and reticent to take pleasure in our accomplishments, mistakenly translating pride of accomplishment with arrogance, and self-satisfaction with conceit. In a desire to be modest or humble, we oft-times sacrifice the awe and wonder in what we accomplish for the frustration and irritation of what we do not. If I slip, I do not focus on my previous successes; rather I rebuke myself with hateful internal dialogue: "Wow, you blew it! What an idiot!" Our self-talk is sometimes so painful that it would be labeled abusive - and rightly so - if said to anyone else.

It is foolish to disregard one's flaws and ignore the lessons from our mistakes. Yet, I wonder what would happen if we more often told others - as well as ourselves - "I'm proud of you." It might not make a difference, but I cannot believe it would harm anything.

The only diet that works?

2008-05-23T17:44:00.000-07:00

I'm really getting too old for this as my knees are getting a little worn; however, I cannot shirk my public responsibility; I must yet scale again my towering soapbox and speak truth to power.

Extra! Extra! Researchers at UCLA say dieting doesn't work!

Yep, according to some of the most advanced minds medical science can cobble together in a laboratory, a recent study discovered that people lose weight initially, but many relapse and regain their weight. In other words, losing weight is easy; keeping it off - not so much.

In the "tell-me-something-I-don't-already-know" department, an obesity researcher at USC added, "It's difficult to modify your diet and turn away from the pleasures of eating." Uh, hello? We didn't know this? Thanks pal for shedding light on that big deep, dark, hidden, mystery. Science marches on.

As I read further, what did my eyes spy but this line: "Specialists generally agree that surgery is the only proven method to keep weight off."

My, oh my, oh my! Where do I even begin? Surgery: the ONLY proven method? Have we lost complete touch with what we're discussing?

This exemplifies the misguided quick fix thinking that surrounds weight loss. Of course, it's a given that extreme plans will fail. If all one does is draw a line in time and say, "Henceforth, I shall never again eat those foods," or conversely, "Those are the only foods I will eat," (the traditional patterns of many diets) the result is a fiasco as "the dieter" is not dealing with the actual cause of her problem: it is NOT what she eats, rather how she thinks.

Our actions - overeating - are not random zombie-like impulses. They are always preceded by thought; sometimes that spark is so blindingly quick (read "habit"), it goes unnoticed, yet it is without exception the precursor. Therefore, if we don't change how we think - what we say to ourselves - we are forever condemned to repeat the offending actions causing weight gain. So, the report is accurate in that, "Most people will put their weight back on." However, it is not due to lack of surgery or powerlessness; rather the frustrating cycle is because we do not focus on doing the inner work necessary for long-term success.

There are some times when surgery is indeed needed, but have we become so addicted to scalpels and pills that we simply toss in the trash heap the phenomenal abilities of the human spirit and drive?

We are miraculous creatures, capable of breath-taking works of art, music that heals the soul, and words that move nations. We have created towering structures that stroke the heavens, machines that breathe life into the dying, and vehicles that can be hurled billions of miles across the vast expanse of space, landing within a bull's-eye the size of my back yard. Surely we are capable of saying, "No thank you" to an extra serving of key lime pie, closing our mouth, and enjoying the success of accomplishment.

It doesn't take surgery for that.

Now Boarding

2008-04-23T17:51:00.000-07:00

It is more convenient to take a trip to a convention center to speak to 300 people than it is to cram them all in my living room. Therefore I spend a goodly share of time in airports. Although there are many kind and respectable people employed within, I often find myself irritated with the process of getting from where I am to where I wish to be, specifically the lines, security, and all-too-common delays.

This frustration - coupled with the need to arrive for my flight before even the sun is awake - causes me to not sleep well the night prior to my travels. Because I am paranoid about being late, I plan to rise at 4AM, which will provide enough time to clear security, check in, and stagger over to the local barrista so he can jump-start my heart with excessive doses of caffeine. To make sure I actually do rise at such an inhumane hour, I set an alarm clock, cell phone, and PDA. (Should all three blare at the same instant, I would probably suffer a heart attack from the unexpected cacophony and miss my flight anyway.)

Reality is alarms are unnecessary because I toss and turn through the night, afraid to oversleep. The internal insomniac conversation is akin to this:

2:00 AM: "I'm going to be so exhausted tomorrow. C'mon Scott, relax! Fall asleep NOW!"

2:30 AM: "OK, if I pass out this second, I can still get 90 minutes; I can get by on that."

3:00 AM: "I'll sleep on the plane and take a ten minute nap between presentations. Cats get by on short naps, why can't I?"

3:15 AM: "Sleep is over-rated. Maybe I should just get up. I'll drink lots of coffee."

3:30 AM: "Oh, forget it! What's the use? I might as well get moving."

With that thought, I drop my feet over edge of the bed and drag my exhausted body into the shower, hoping to revitalize myself enough to get to the airport before collapsing in the arms of Hypnos, the God of Sleep.

As I recently lie restlessly in the darkness, I thought, "At which point do I finally decide to face the inevitable, get up, and get moving?" I know how this is going to turn out; I might as well accept it. What causes me to finally cross that line? When do I shift from inactivity to realization to action? I squander so much time forcing myself into stagnation, knowing all the while the outcome is predestined. Denial and delay are not successful strategies.

This routine, I decided, is a metaphor for much of life. As frustration mounts and the inevitability of what needs to be done pushes ever closer, we find unlimited rationales to avoid doing what we'll eventually do anyway. "There's always later." "Problem, what problem?" "Ignore it and it will go away."

The alarm is blaring; the destination awaits; all seats are boarding. Check your baggage, it's time to go.

Speeding Through Life

2008-04-16T17:35:00.000-07:00

The very first time I sat in the therapist's office, my initial question was not in search of personal insights, philosophical uplift, nor deep understanding. Rather it was a rudimentary and mundane query, "How long will this take?"

Glancing at his watch, he glibly replied, "About 50 minutes."

"No," I countered, "I mean how long before I am fixed?"

"First of all," he said, "You're not broken; you do not need to be fixed. The thing about mental health is that you understand you will never completely 'get your act together;' you develop tools that help you handle better the problems you face and enjoy your life more in the process. However, once you deal with the surface issues, others will come to view; so in a manner of speaking, one never gets there. Shall we begin?"

Forty-nine minutes to go; this was going to be a very long hour.

Since then, I have indeed learned quite a lot:

1. I make positive choices more often than I don't.

2. Despite knowing the correct thing to do - I do not always opt to do so. (However, one those occasions when I choose to "walk off a cliff," there is some small measure of satisfaction in at least knowing I am making a choice, and not merely a victim of random circumstance.)
I still want to rush the process so I can be "there" already. At times, I tire of self-analysis and deep thought. I simply expect the Universe to operate the way I think it should. What's wrong with that?

3. As illustration, I wish I could lose those "extra pounds" without having to change any habits. That way, I could stop thinking about calories, carbs, and calisthenics every blasted waking minute. Then - I promise - I will lead a 100% healthy lifestyle and maintain this new body. It's not like I don't know how; so what use is there in undergoing this torturous, monotonous process of yet again? I swear I have learned my lesson. Just get me to the destination and I'll prove it.

Insanity is described as "doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result." If I am indeed seeking physical and mental health; and every time I follow the "hurry-up-and-get-there path," I regain my weight; maybe a thought adjustment is required.

Those things of which I am most proud (physically, emotionally, and spiritually) all came from effort. I saved money, educated my mind, and developed my beliefs. Setbacks, although unpleasant, were the genesis for understanding and growth.

If life is a journey and not a destination, why race for the end? I lament how quickly my days pass, yet disregard the present, urgently longing for tomorrow, sacrificing the only actual time I have: Now.

Maybe if I can enjoy today, tomorrow will be even better.

In An Instant

2008-04-09T17:33:00.000-07:00

(Note: Originally published in April, 2007)

It is not over years, but in an instant that everything changes.

Elizabeth Edwards, wife of presidential candidate, John Edwards, and a powerful figure of her own accord, has had a reoccurrence of breast cancer, metastasizing in her bones. One minute, she's "cancer-free," the next moment, she is facing a decision that could be of historic proportions for our country.

So much happens in one tick of a clock.

Tony Snow, White House press spokesman, enters the hospital for a "routine" procedure to remove a growth from his abdomen. It is a safe bet to assume that day turned out to be anything but "routine" for the Snow family.

Two political figures, with widely disparate views, are at once united in a battle against a common enemy; a poignant reminder that more binds us than drives us apart. It matters not what one owns, or the power one wields, mortality is unimpressed by stature.

It goes without saying that not only the rich and powerful, or those with access to our national spotlight must face their moments. Each of us, is - or will be - confronted with "instants" that upend everything we know. (I pray for the courage of Ms. Edwards when mine comes.)

These national events, coupled with cheerless news from some friends, have brought to the surface emotions I prefer to avoid, yet apparently, cannot. I hold little fear of heart attack or stroke. I do (most of) what I can to avoid their cold grasp: I eat well; engage in moderate, regular, exercise; and have years (and years) of therapy to cope with the psychological and emotional ravages that might trigger such events.

Cancer, however, is a far different story. The very word slams a stake of terror through my heart.

My mother was a victim of that wretched, abominable, scourge; dragging her from diagnosis to death in 18 blindingly short days - an instant. It was an horrific, dreadful period where we helplessly watched her decline from what we thought was healthy, vibrant, and active; to her demise. Seven years hence, it remains a gaping tear in the fabric of my life.

Yet, although I still bitterly miss her, and feel deeply for others facing such challenges, I believe with utter certainty that it is a travesty to park myself idly and fearfully by the side of life's road, waiting for whatever fate shall bring. Death may be natural, but avoiding Life is sinful.

Until that moment when I have no options, I still retain some control. In any fragment of time - including this very second - I must therefore remind myself to inhale deeply the beauty of all that surrounds me; smile more often at the pleasures I possess; and honor those who no longer have those options by infusing myself, totally, and completely with the Spirit of Health and Wellbeing that I still possess in THIS instant.

Coloring books and commitments

2008-04-02T18:53:00.000-07:00

I was "row monitor" in second grade; sitting in the last seat, making sure all students in row #4 behaved. If not, their name was recorded in my official "monitor's notebook," which at day's end, was delivered to the teacher. Right now, during daily quiet time, everyone was behaving appropriately. No one messed with the law when I was on duty.

If all was calm, and we had no pending assignments, we were given permission to color. Each of us had a coloring book in our desk for just such occasion. Eagerly, I pulled my precious book from inside my desk and began flipping through the pages, looking for just the right picture. I always colored the "way cool" pictures first, usually images with robots or ray guns. Alas, they were all completed. Slightly disappointed, but undaunted, I dropped to the next level, the boring pictures - the ones with horses or girls in them.

"Make a mental note," I told myself, "get a new coloring book - no girl pictures." But since that was all that remained, I began flipping pages. Nothing. The entire coloring book was full.

Sadly, I slid my book into its home, folded my hands on my desk, looked up at the clock, sighed, and waited; I had absolutely nothing to do.

I believe that was the last time I remember that happening.

Back then; there was more time than I could ever fill. Its vast landscape stretched out unbroken in front of me forever, no urgency, a million tomorrows yet to come. To a child, there seems no end point, no termination; life is a road without finish. Anything is possible whenever one should choose.

My life today is poles apart from how it was when I was seven. Now, I pay considerable sums of money to take cruises, putting me in a place where I force myself to do "nothing." Like an addict going through withdrawal, the first few days without assignments and deadlines feel awkward and uncomfortable. Finally, when I can settle down and relax, I become tense over my pending return to the garble of assignments and responsibilities that cascade through my waking hours, keeping me amped from before dawn to after dark.

In a world crushed by deadlines and everyday jobs, we too often delay Responsibility One: taking care of ourselves so we can enjoy this ride as long as possible.

"One of these days," I will get my act together. "Someday soon," I will eat correctly, "When the time is right," I will spend more time with my family.

We - like the wide-eyed children we no longer are - feel there's constantly tomorrow, still another sunrise to come. That might be. However, there is no guarantee.

Why not begin today?

Now, where did I put that coloring book?

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and columnist. Since losing 70 pounds over 13 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. His second weight loss book, "MORE Striving for Imprefection: 52 additional columns on weight loss, habit change, and other acts of faith" was just released. Both books are now available at www.TheEatingCycle.com or by contacting him at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or 707.422.6243.

Point of View

2008-03-26T12:37:00.000-07:00

Due to a recent bout of unexpected sunshine, I was persuaded to abandon the comfort of our couch to work in our yard. Although my wife's and my relationship is quite balanced, she has deemed lawn upkeep as "Scott's job." I know not why, as I have not requested this high honor, and, to be quite frank, am not particularly skilled in this arena. Nonetheless, being her loving pawn, I march duly forth with lawnmower and weed eater to engage the high grass.

Our lot is not particularly large, unless one is faced with the prospect of mowing it... and the grass is long - and wet; three intertwined dynamics of last weekend. This permutation of factors means I cannot simply drag the mower over my property once; rather I must set the cutter to maximum height, labor to and fro, back and forth across the bumpy lawn (periodically grinding to a stop on uneven clumps of mud), shake the bulky, heavy, dismally designed bag with the ridiculously narrow opening numerous times, then repeat, repeat, repeat. After this preliminary trimming, I lower the cutter and engage in this funfest yet again.

While attempting to stuff the gooey, wet, stinky, clippings into the lawn bag, it rips and falls, spilling a mess along the sidewalk. I now grab the push broom (a tool close to useless for sweeping wet, sticky grass from asphalt) and proceed to sweep (such as it is) and scoop the grass back into the sack, only to have it yet again tumble (this time to the other side), spilling even more of its contents, changing my routine from sweep and scoop, to sweep, scoop, and swear.

Whether triggered by the pain in my back, the sun in my eyes, or the sweat soaking my brow, I do not know; yet a random thought skipped across my mind as I bent down to lift the green waste, "At least I'm not shoveling show in freezing temperatures. THAT would be a major drag."

And in that instant, lifting wet grass in overfull, black, heavy lawn bags seemed a lot better. How can I complain about maintaining my very own front yard, in a good neighborhood, on a mild day - and being healthy enough to do it - when so many cannot even afford a mortgage? And what about those who simply wish for a roof over their head? In that light, I'm blessedly fortunate.

With that thought as a launch-off point, I realized again that point of view is essential. Many go to bed with distended stomachs and hunger pains, and I so quickly lament that my double Grande extra hot latte has to have non-fat instead of whole milk, or that I must bypass ordering a chocolate muffin to accompany it.

Funny, huh? Look one way; life stinks; look another's it's mighty fine. (I will still admit however that it would a gardener would make it even a little better.)

History

2008-03-12T16:11:00.000-07:00

Purchased from the Thomas Page company for "$100 in gold coin" on "lot 7 of block 7", and constructed of redwood in 1907, the Church of the Oaks in Cotati, California, has been in the same location on the corner of Page and West Sierra since its construction. The one room, unimposing, white building has watched over this town from its grassy lot for 100 years.

Prior to the service where I would speak to the small congregation, I sat noiselessly in the modest, tranquil sanctuary, infused with the presence of a century of people who sat where I was now. Some lives began here; others heard their final tribute; now the life-energy of each was as much a part of this building as its stained glass windows or bell tower.

Within these hardy, dark, handcrafted, timber walls, I imagined Edna Meriwether given in holy matrimony to William Johnson, encircled by the local gathering of family and friends. The church bell chimed a joyous noise that echoed through the small burg; while outside, next to the magnificent oak, the sound of fiddles, dancing, and carefree conversation drifted through the trees.

Sarah Williamson listened to the minister as he eulogized the premature passing of her husband, Jonah, when his tractor rolled on him while he plowed the fields one foggy morning during the 1930s. He had tilled the same patch of earth since he was a boy. This spot where Emmanuel, their son, had been baptized, was Jonah's last stop before he was lowered into the Earth.

The flock sought solace in this place during times of urgency. Sermons of spiritual import were delivered from its pulpit as it listened intently with somber understanding. It rejoiced to banjo music on weekend dances; and was uplifted by hymns of praise at Sunday service.

The church stood witness to it all. Although constructed of redwood and bound together by nails and screws, these walls reflected the heart of a community. If one listened, one could hear the beating, rhythmic, pulsing, formed over decades.

Each of us is a sanctuary of our own past. We are not simply what we our present; but we carry within all that has come before, from unlimited voices and countless decisions. We each hold dear a rich history, some of it unfortunate, some truly glorious. Yet it is all came together to where we stand now. Every past choice, whether correct or in error, set us upon a path to today. Whether good or bad or in between, we cannot return.

Yet, we are not locked at this time. Each and every choice we make today will become our history tomorrow.

The voices

2008-03-05T18:45:00.001-08:00

A fierce battle rages within me each time unexpected goodies are offered my way.

Let me set up a scenario. I stop by Jim's office to pick up a flyer. Cake, brownies, and pie are strewn about the table in the employee lounge. He says, "We had a party in Brenda's honor today. Help yourself."

We now join the internal conversation, already in progress...

Voice number one: "Wow! Look at all those goodies. Go for it!"

Voice number two (the skinny one): "It's merely food Scott! It's not like you've never had chocolate cake before. Get a grip!"

V1: "But it's free. That makes it better."

V2: "It still has calories. Just because you don't pay for it doesn't mean it won't make you fat."

V1: "Ah, come on. Don't be a stick in the mud. It's just going to go to waste if you don't eat it. Think of all the starving people who would jump at a chance for this much food."

V2: "Just because it could be wasted doesn't make me the garbage disposal. And, as for the starving people, I can donate to Food for People. But, if I eat this, they don't gain weight - I do."

V1: "OK, appealing to your sense of global values isn't going anywhere. Let's try this. How do you feel when you spend a whole lot of time looking for that perfect gift for your wife, and then she opens it, and you can tell by the look in her eyes that she's disappointed?"

V2: "Let down, a little sad I guess."

V1: "Right. And then you get distant from her. And she pulls back. And soon you're having an argument about something that's totally unrelated, like the toothpaste cap or the time you didn't clean the grill when she asked you to."

V1: "What's your point?"

V2: "Well, it's kind of like that, see? Jim and you are good friends as well as business associates, right?"

"Yes, so?"

"So, he's thinking of you by offering a chance to share in the celebration of his workmate. By providing these treats, he's really saying, 'We don't spend enough time together socially. I'm trying to make up for that by giving you these goodies. Please don't turn your back on me. I'm feeling very vulnerable right now.'"

"All that is involved in this? I thought he was just being friendly."

"Don't be naive, men aren't good at discussing emotions so it comes out other ways."

"Well I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings. I guess a little bit is OK."

As I reach for the plate, Jim says, "Oh yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you. You do so well watching your weight. I was hoping for a few tips."

My hand lurches to the right and I pour a cup of coffee instead, only to hear myself reply, "It's simple actually. Just follow your inner voice."

The break up

2008-02-27T18:25:00.000-08:00

Relationships come and go but I have been deeply involved with calories for a very long time. We were not smarties, rather a couple of chunky dum-dum nerds on a rocky road: snickering together, exchanging chocolate kisses. Sweet things were left for me each day and I was wooed by those charms. I went goo-goo over the relationship.

Our time was good - and plenty. Periodically, we escaped for extended cross-country excursions, enjoying each other on Fifth Avenue as we traversed that long, licorice highway, viewing the Milky Way, admiring Mars. I remember one particular trip where we spent the night on a farm, treated by a jolly rancher. I have to tell you, he was a lifesaver.

Calories came to my workplace, offering sage advice, spicing up my day. When frustrated and angered by writer's block, I ventured to the kitchen for consultations with chocolates and cookies. When I returned, gone was Mr. Chip from my shoulder, leaving me filled again, dissatisfaction in peeces. But I don't need to explain that, u-know how it is when you're on a roll.

By the glow of a flickering TV screen, after payday, I sat with potato crisps, tortilla chips, and candy. Not a peep would be uttered, I could tell simply by the look that I was wanted and needed, like a big hunk.

However, I am finding that our relationship - although very filling - is causing me heartache (and heartburn). I have been trying to fudge how I feel but I must consider moving on. I am afraid I might be turning into a sucker.

Oh sure, we had great times. I will long for midnight rendezvous in the kitchen, finding passion with leftover mashed potatoes and cold cuts to the soft light of an open refrigerator. Rainy Sundays coupled with croissants and scones made for great times; I won't be able to peruse the morning paper without crying, especially when I read the recipe page.

It is important to understand I have no beef with this relationship and I am not chicken to move forward. I just want to make sure what I do is well done. So it is with heavy heart and heavier waistline that I have come to this fork in the road, indeed an irony, since that utensil has usually been party to more positive moments. I have so many mixed feelings; having to fold-in many thoughts, beating and whipping myself up, egging myself onward, processing and blending all we have been. My concern is how this will pan out.

This decision should be easy as pie, yet it is no cakewalk. What I do know is that it is eating me alive and I better make up my mind, before I waist any more time.

Paradoxes

2008-01-30T18:57:00.000-08:00

Why do we treat with disdain that which we love?

That sounds like sappy dialog from a poorly penned science-fiction movie - a supposedly wise paradox accepted as profound philosophy; while in reality, a load of cheap gibberish gussied up in cut-rate fabric and touted as Sunday finery.

"One must live in darkness to truly see light."

That is silliness, nothing more. However there are paradoxes of serious concern. As example, there is no greater joy than the excitement, enthusiasm, and absolute elation derived from the self-control of beating back one's personal demons. When I turn down an extra helping of potato salad; ride my bike when I would rather drive; or opt for healthy food over junk; an infusion of vitality and confidence electrifies my soul unlike any other sensation. Should it be possible to bottle and distribute that sentiment, Heaven itself would pale in comparison to life on Earth.

So, why do I fight that euphoria which I adore so much? Am I resistant to joy? It is there, patiently waiting for the taking, always within reach; ready to embrace me. Yet I so often turn away.

I set up my day to run behind schedule, thereby forcing myself to avoid the reduced stress and enhanced feeling of fitness that I receive when I walk on my errands. I contort and twist my mental processes to rationalize an excuse giving me permission to finish a bag of tortilla chips, knowing that revulsion that will overcome me later.

It is a paradox of sad proportion. I have within me the ability to feel fantastic, emboldened, and fulfilled; or I can opt for the lowly pathway of immediate gratification and the grief that follows. That which I find irresistible, I avoid. That which I detest, I embrace.

In most of my life, I "do what it takes." I (usually) make choices necessary for closeness with my family, which might not always be the easiest option. To enhance my career, I force myself to face the scary places, make the cold calls, take the risks. Yet, in this one part of my life - one that means so very much - I take the short cuts.

In college, I learned a proverb; "When all is perfect, the Gods become jealous of you and therefore take something away." Have I set up my life to leave one component a kilter to keep those Gods at bay? Moreover, the irony is that when we do exercise the will and control within - even for mere moments - we are more in touch with all that is holy and glorious than at any other time; a thought worth remembering the next time Choice comes calling.

In three weeks

2008-01-23T17:40:00.000-08:00

They say, "Eat less and exercise more; the weight will practically fall off." They also say, "getting started is the hardest part." Of course, garrulous as They are, They make sure to point out you shouldn't have waited so long before taking care of yourself. Whoever "They" are, They sure have a lot to say about how to run your life, don't They?

They also tell you that if you keep a new habit in place for only three weeks, it will be adapted into your life. I'm not sure I agree. I've been dieting since before they invited sugar-free cola and non-fat yogurt - considerably more than three weeks - and I still find healthy eating a challenge, especially when stressed with organizing my taxes, calling the plumber to fix a plugged toilet, and trying to find a few seconds for my family. In those moments, a double-bacon, cheesy, chiliburger and gargantuan order of fries still shout pretty loud.

Yet, if you have ever tried to adjust habits, you have faced the dreaded (insert ominous music here...) "Three Week Barrier."

In Week One, all is new and exciting. You are inspired (or at least willing) to do what it takes; after all, you've stopped putting it off, might as well get on with the task at hand. Once the decision has finally been made, activity begins; changes occur; motivation results. By Week Two - if you look for it - you see a few fledgling results. Even though the path ahead appears long, these early outcomes keep you plodding onward.

At Week Three, most people start facing as many setbacks as successes. As Life is wont to do, it throws some curves, and dealing with these stresses generates the urge for comfort, in effect the desire to revert to old habits. Confronted with instantaneous chocolate gratification or what appears a tortuous, arduous, uphill life-long slog, most opt to "try again later, when things finally settle down." (Not wishing to be morbid, but I must point out the only time things "finally settle down," your weight won't matter to anyone but the six friends carrying you to your final resting place.)

If it is accurate that every person faces frustrations, why do some persevere while others fall victim to the lure of the old ways?

I'm glad you asked. While some focus on external results, craving to "get there quickly" so we can "stop thinking about this all the time," others direct their attention to their feelings when confronted with these inevitable setbacks. They remind themselves of the successes so far, meager as they might seem. Although frustrated, they slow down long enough to learn from the feedback, and work on adjusting their attitude - even if only for an instant. Without ongoing fine-tuning, we are condemned to repeat old patterns.

That's what They say. And - in this instance - They are correct.

The Pixie Dust Diet

2008-01-09T13:44:00.000-08:00

Those sparkling, glittering, glowing flecks I have scattered on you cause no harm; do not be alarmed. It is pixie dust from whence great magic comes.

Immediately great wealth beyond all expectation will befall you! Vary not your customary routine; dollars will gravitate to you. Strangers will bestow upon you copious quantities of currency. A gold vein will be unearthed in your backyard. Congress will declare a new tax with all proceeds delivered to an account of your choosing.

That is merely the beginning.

Not only will these gleaming granules of glorious glitter augment your bottom line, they impart supernatural powers. While holding a few flecks, click together your heels three times, spin twice to the east, sing passionately your favorite show tune, and you will become as the breeze and elevate weightlessly into the sky, able to fly with the birds along the tops of redwoods.

These minuscule specks also possess extraordinary healing power. You will live countless years in perfect health. Nothing unpleasant will befall you; disease is non-existent, accidents a concern of the past.

Live boldly. Live large; for you have been infused with the powder of pixies.

I detect cynicism; how can you doubt? We are exposed to countless similar claims of buffoonery proclaiming equally implausible benefits, all wrapped in the blanket of the "latest secret of weight loss". Why do we believe those, yet scoff at equally implausible payback of pixie powder?

One supplement on line proclaims, "a total body makeover pill for women of all ages," and professes to suppress appetite, enlarge breast tissue, and super charge your sex drive. (Who would have known that bust size is related to weight loss?) I'm sure this miracle of modern medicine even cleans the house, helps students with calculus, and solves geopolitical struggles in the Middle East on weekends. Such claims are similarly believable.

Another product is cloaked in ancient mysteries, declaring to reveal "The Secret" from ancient scrolls containing "many little-known health and weight loss secrets, including a fountain of youth-like philosophy called 'lean-gevity.'" Should we mere mortals have a chance to peruse these scrolls, they probably read, "eat less, move more, and focus on long-term change." However, such details are omitted from the on-line marketing materials - must be an oversight. No worry however; for merely $79, one can share the enlightenment. I cannot get my credit card at the ready quickly enough.

I so often wish I could pop a pill, read a scroll, or swallow a concoction that would magically change the traits I do not like about myself. Alas, I do live in reality; no products will ever accomplish those goals. However, achieving results through self-control, determination, and healthy choices is a magical feeling.

Special Series on Motivation & Inspiration

2008-01-02T17:30:00.000-08:00

Last year, I ran a five part series in my newspaper column all about motivation and how to get it, where it comes from, etc. It's appropriate for the beginning of the new year so if you'd like to see it, follow this link.

Unfortunately, Blogger puts in in reverse chronological order so if you want to read it in the order it was originally released, scroll to the bottom and go up. It doesn't make a whole lot of difference, but if you like things the way they were delivered, be aware.

Embracing the Here and Meow

2007-12-26T19:12:00.000-08:00

Somebody said, "Dogs have masters, cats have staff."

Being a staff member for two cats, I will testify to the veracity of the statement. Our 12-year-old cat, K.C. (um, short for "kitty cat"), has abruptly made a significant behavioral switch, leaving me in the position of having to adjust to this alteration - as I seem powerless in my attempts to convince her to revert to old behaviors. It appears that the bedroom where she has spent many years sleeping, purring - and shedding - is no longer acceptable to wile away the hours. Rather, she has commandeered our bathroom.

In addition to the fact that she has no need for such facilities, I find it puzzling, as tile and porcelain seem to be rather uncomfortable furnishings (especially compared with the warmth and comfort of a carpeted bedroom).

Yet, undeterred by my urgings to return to a softer habitat, she has taken over, napping in the tub or sleeping on the toilet lid. At first I was unnerved in the wee, dark, quiet hours of the night should I happen to sleepishly stagger into the bathroom and be greeted unexpectedly by a low, rumbling, noisy purr. Now, I have learned to simply lift her from the toilet seat, place her on the edge of the tub, take care of business, return her to the lid, pat her goodnight, and totter unsteadily back to bed. Shaving has become virtually impossible as she jumps onto the vanity and sticks her face in mine. We have developed a dance: I place her on the floor, shave as quickly as possible before she leaps back, replace her on floor, shave, floor, shave, repeat as necessary.

As with most change, I do eventually adjust.

This is just one aspect of life beyond my control. Should they all be as benign as modifying my morning constitutional to accommodate a furry, affectionate feline, life would be delightful. Yet, that is not so. Often, change crashes in, an out-of-control 18-wheeler through a tent, crushing and crunching everything in its wake; proof of the observation, "Life is what happens while we make other plans."

The question is not, "Will life change?" Instead, it is "How will I adjust to its changes?" Rather than dig in my heels to be dragged screamingly into the dark places, I can find some peace in accepting that the only constant is change. Lamenting a changing diet or the aging of my body does nothing more than tear down my attitude, depleting what I joy I could have.

Change is in all things: the blooming of spring flowers, the laugher of an infant, even the wrinkles around my eyes. It is neither "bad" nor "good," it merely "is."

Embrace it. Adjust to it. And, oh yes, take some time to purr.

The Perfect Gift

2007-12-19T15:31:00.000-08:00

I have trouble accepting that a "lightweight, high power vacuum cleaner" is really the "perfect gift" for Mom, even if - "But wait, there's more!" - they throw in the "super-compact, handy-dandy spot cleaner" when ordered in the next ten minutes.

"Merry Christmas, Mom. How about cleaning the carpets?"

It doesn't ring "holiday spirit" to me; maybe I'm a Grinch.

I am dubious that a pair of shiny, brushed aluminum, "decision dice" - with no shipping charges if ordered today - is the ultimate present for indecisive family members. With a flick of the wrist, they suggest "never" or "think hard." Yet, it doesn't seem the best idea to show Aunt Martha I was thinking of her during Hanukkah.

Although I dispute the claim that the "Cat Lady Action Figure" is the ideal present for the pet lover on my list, I find it humorous, possibly because my wife is a "cat lover" and that toy would provide me with fodder for playful teasing. Unfortunately, "ideal presents" do not include repercussions causing me to have to sleep on the couch, so I scratch it off my list.

"Perfect" is unattainable. Therefore, I now present a few gifts that LEAST serve dieters' needs:

1) Tins of cookies, nuts, or fudge. I would not give wine to Uncle Al, celebrating his three years of sobriety; why provide similar temptation to one learning to control his eating? I say I'll only "have a taste," but it's an amazing coincidence that the size of that taste exactly matches the amount in the container. Add to that a hangover of guilt and shame and this is not a good present for me.

2) Loose fitting clothes. After a month of excess consumption, what I need most is to regain control, not soft, cushy, expandable-waist sweatpants. In less-controlled days, I was even inclined to don a cheerfully decorated, flowery Hawaiian Mumu come December's end. If it didn't clash so terribly with my tie, I might have taken the leap. A belt is a better idea.

3) Another remote control. It's tough enough to fight the coach potato syndrome when it's warm, let alone when the sky is dreary and the sidewalk is soaked. Place a remote in my hand and a brightly flickering 42-inch plasma screen in front of my face, and the recliner will simply swallow me whole. My first step in my new year's exercise plan could be shutting off the TV.

Reality is that the perfect gift is not purchased via cash or credit card, nor wrapped in shiny red boxes topping with sparkling bows. The perfect gift would be the tranquility of self-confidence, the blessing excellent health, the joy of a happy family, and peace and abundance for each person on Earth.

I assure you no one would return that. Happy Holidays.

No More Potato Salad

2007-12-05T17:14:00.001-08:00

Each dieter does it differently. Some eat a lot but look forward to exercise to burn it off. To me, looking forward to exercise is akin to eager anticipation of a root canal. Ain't gonna happen.

My method of staying on track is by removing temptation; i.e., if it's not here, I won't eat it. Should you inspect my refrigerator, you would lay view to a vast amount of empty space. It's a Spartan existence, but - for the most part - it works.

My mother used neither exercise nor my "minimalist" approach. Rather, she simply controlled her portions. Wow! What a novel concept: Eat well and eat the correct amount. Who would have thought?

Yet, therein lies a rub.

Whenever I visited, she would organize some form of get-together "in Scott's honor." Aunts and cousins would converge on Saturday afternoon to see how the Northern California component of the clan was surviving. Hugs. Conversation. Photographs. And of course, food. Lots and lots of food.

Across numerous tables would span a landscape of desserts, rolls, cheese, desserts, cold cuts, desserts, drinks, and - did I say - desserts. If ten people were expected, we had foodstuff for 50. "Food shortage" was not in her vocabulary.

For Mom, being encircled by so much food worked fine; she refused to give in to it. For me, it was difficult; I tried to elicit her support.

"Mom, can we not have so much to eat?"

"No, honey. People expect food at parties."

"I know; but we have enough for a small nation. It's too tempting."

"Don't worry sweetie, it'll get eaten."

"What concerns me is by whom."

Inevitably, there would be "one last thing" that we forgot to put on the table. Surveying the scenery of soups, slaws, and salads, she would exclaim, "We don't have potato salad!"

"Mom, there's plenty. No more, please!"

"Nonsense. Everyone loves potato salad."

"This is a party in my honor, can't we please do it my way?"

"It is for you - but I'm the hostess. We'll do it right."

(The irony is the potato salad was always thrown out later, untouched; a lesson that remained unlearned.)

It annoyed me that she ignored my requests, making it more demanding for me to watch my weight at what was MY party. I know, on the grand scale of things, it's no big deal. But sometimes "little things" get under your skin. It seemed inconsiderate. I resented it.

Ruth Marcus would have turned 82 next week. If she were still alive, I would have ecstatically delivered truckloads of potato salad anywhere she wanted me to.

Some things are simply more significant than a perfect diet.

Easy as Pie

2007-11-28T18:27:00.000-08:00

"Are you going to finish eating that?"

"I want to give it a few minutes to see how I feel. I'm not sure I'm full."

"It sure looks tasty."

"Yes, you're right. It does look tasty. As a matter of fact, it is extremely tasty."

"You know, I love that kind of pie."

"Thank you for sharing. Most folks do."

"If you decide you don't want it, I'd be glad to polish it off it for you."

"What a surprise. I'll make a note so I don't forget."

"How long will it take to determine whether you're full or not?"

"What's with all the questions? Are you taking a survey? Do you have a pending appointment and need to take a piece of pie with you?"

"No, it's just that it would be a real shame to throw it away. I don't want it to go to waste."

"It would be more of a shame to waist it - if you catch my drift."

"Yeah, cute. It's just a small piece. It's not like eating the whole thing."

"You're right. Except I already had a slice so I'm trying to focus on the whole picture. When I eat without thinking, I regret it later, so trying to slow down and appreciate my food, not just shove it down. It's kind of a 'quality versus quantity' thing. If I weigh my options, I don't have to weigh myself."

"If you want my opinion, it's not a life-changing decision like buying a house that will cost you hundreds of thousands of dollars. It's a silly sliver of pie for goodness sake."

"And your point is?"

"No need to stress out about it."

"I am not stressing. I'm thinking, analyzing, even pondering. But since you brought up money, this is similar to having a bank account, but instead of dollars, I have calories; I can spend them anyway I want, but if I spend too many, I end up in debt. I used to spend myself into bankruptcy. I don't like that feeling. I'm trying to change."

"Couldn't you take out a calorie advance loan and repay it tomorrow?"

"Been there, done that; I'm in caloric debt for the entire year. I've got to start paying it back soon, stop telling myself, 'you can begin tomorrow;' the hardest thing is getting started. If you could give me some quiet, I'd appreciate it."

"Should I go somewhere else?"

"Is that possible? Can inner voices do that?"

"I'll tell you what, just let me have this one final piece and I promise I'll shut up and never bother you again."

"You say that every time."

Red Wine Diets

2007-11-14T19:19:00.000-08:00

People send me things.

After one of my columns which portrayed a middle-aged woman inspecting herself in the bedroom mirror while her husband lovingly observed, I received a card from an 83-year-old woman who said that after 65 years of marriage, her husband still looks at her "that way" and she loves it. You go elderly couple! You inspire me.

I wrote about riding my bike. Someone called me and said she knew Lance Armstrong, and would send him that column. That's kind of cool - to think that Lance Armstrong would read my words. I like to think it was what inspired him to win the last Tour de France. (Of course, I like to think I inspired Michelangelo's statue of David also. The odds are about the same.)

I receive a great deal of email about what I write. Embedded in the bits and bytes of electronic communication that I download to my trusty Macintosh are questions about weight loss, motivational observations about change, poems with a dieting theme, and references to stories on the web.

One such hyperlink terminated in an article on msnbc.com entitled, "Big Fat Doses of Red Wine Extract Help Obese Mice Stay Happy, Healthy, and Live Longer." (On the internet, they are apparently not limited to short headlines.) The gist of the article (which later made national news) was that a study by the Harvard Medical School and the National Institute on Aging showed that an ingredient in red wine, resveratrol, lowers the rate of diabetes, liver problems, and other "fat-related" ill effects in obese mice. Fat-related deaths even dropped 31 percent when mice were given a supplement derived from resveratrol.

The mice did not have to change what they eat, rather they were kept on a high-calorie diet, which one scientist called a "McDonald's Diet." Not only were they about as healthy as normal mice, but they were as agile and active as their lean counterparts when it came to exercise. Said the doctor, "They're chubby but inside they look great."

I ponder future repercussions on humans. Could it be that in upcoming decades the concept of healthy dieting undergoes a complete transformation? In the present, I choose salads, high-fiber unprocessed grains, and lean protein - while making sure I walk or ride my bike regularly. Is it conceivable that years from now - while in a constant haze of red wine-induced inebriation - I find myself gorging on a cholesterol feast of dripping chili cheese burgers on double thick buns, extra cartloads of French fries, gooey chocolate sundaes, and peanut butter chocolate candies?

When approached by a well-intentioned (but uneducated) stranger distressed about my 82-inch waist, I reply, "Thank you for the concern but I'm in training for a marathon."

In two years

2007-11-07T20:56:00.000-08:00

This is my 104th weekly column: two years. I am humbled and honored by the fact that you have helped me reach this landmark. It is the way that with milestones, come reflections.

I am not whom I was upon the commencement of this journey; I view the world in a different way. Although always curious, I am now more observant and analytical. I do not watch, I witness; seeking clarification, striving to make sense, always on alert for sparks of understanding and illumination that I can share via these pages. It is a way of connecting. It is also an educational, fascinating, enjoyable - albeit sometimes difficult - process. I rarely regret it.

Experience has led me to believe that the speed at which time passes is more perception than reality. We disappoint and set ourselves up to fail upon forgetting this vital lesson: Time accelerates when we enjoy its process; it lags when we struggle. In reality, time is what time is. How we feel about what we do adjusts the perceived speed of its passage.

When I was brand new, each morning was a fresh miracle cast in a yellow-orange hue. When I was that young, two years was forever. It was painful to count the days between vacations or holidays. To realize that I had to wait even a week to go to a birthday party was excruciating. Time crawled. The clock dragged. Because youthful energy made me eager to "get on with it," I struggled with the pace of life, and consequently, it jammed in slow motion.

It is human nature to want more, or to desire something better. Improved health, more understanding, increased prosperity - we know we will not "get there" in a day. There are a great many lessons to be learned. But because we so crave what we don't have, acquiring it seems to "take forever." We struggle and lament the process. In effect, we "slow down" the time it takes to be there. On the other hand, focusing on the joys of the lesson, the excitement of new knowledge, and the pride of accomplishment, causes time to flow without a hitch.

There is no small amount of irony here. Those things I want to do and enjoy go by in a blink. Chores and lessons won't get past me fast enough. Alas, accepting life on its own terms is yet another key to contentment.

I do know because I enjoy life, that "two years from now" will feel like it has arrived tomorrow. The previous two whooshed by at light speed, leaving me unsure they were even here.

Whatever I want to do next must begin immediately, as tomorrow is almost past.

A lucky man

2007-10-31T19:39:00.000-07:00

There is a fable whereby God gives each person the option to rid himself of his most pressing difficulty. Everyone places his or her problems in the center of a circle. In turn, each then inspects the travails and challenges of the others, and chooses what he or she would prefer. As the fable goes, everyone opts for his own problem. Human nature is to always consider oneself less fortunate than others - until presented with reality.

Michael J. Fox considers himself to be a "lucky man." As I watched him on TV try to contain uncontrollable tremors and twitches inflicted by Parkinson's disease, I was astonished - and awed - to hear him describe himself as "fortunate." He admits he would not have opted for this disease; yet as long as it is his path, he feels it is a gift because he's able to help others.

Shall we compare? Fox describes Parkinson's as "a gift;" I complain when I have to say "no" to a second scoop of ice cream. Maybe rethinking my position is in order.

Since I was a young overweight lad, I cannot remember when I did not complain about having to watch what I eat. While other children gorged themselves on potato chips, soft drinks, and chocolate fudge bars, my mother filled me with non-fat milk, fruit, and grilled chicken.

As a small boy stomping his feet in the midst of a tantrum, I would rail against the wrongness of the universe. "It's not fair!" I yelled. "Richard and Nancy are going to get ice cream. I want to go too!"

In those early years, I could not know the pain my mother felt as she was compelled to hold back her son from the experience of his peers so he could learn much-needed healthier habits. Lovingly, she would reply, "You're right; it's not fair. But Richard and Nancy don't have to watch their weight. You need to eat more carefully than they do."

I grew resentful over time: wounded by the loneliness felt only by the unattractive, angry over diets that promised but never delivered, insulted and beaten down by boorish comments poking fun of my size. Why did God condemn me?

Michael J. Fox - with Parkinson's - considers his disease a gift. I have an outburst over having to eat low-fat cheese. I'm thinking I just might need to "get over myself."

I "suffer" from a disease of abundance. While half the planet's population goes without, I must cut back. I must count calories in a world one person out of two prays not to go to sleep hungry.

If we were to put my problem in the circle, I think I'd take it back.

Beware The After Halloween sale!

2007-10-17T16:55:00.000-07:00

Tread wearily fellow dieter; the dark forces have gathered. Faster than a chocolate bat escaping the flames of Hades; quicker than a skeleton-costumed, sugar-crazed seven-year-old can consume a pile of gummi booty; we have arrived at the time of year when calories assail us from every direction.

One of the seemingly benign but more malevolent influences is the post-Halloween candy sale. Enter any store and be immediately accosted with an oversized display filled with foil covered peanut butter chocolate bats, black and orange jelly beans, and "fun size" candy bars. (Personally, I consider one-pound bars to be the "fun size" bars; miniatures are merely appetizers. But, who am I to quibble?) Attached to this colossal cache of calories is a sign proclaiming, "Half Off!"

Despite the activities of the previous evening, no amount of sugar crawling through my veins will cause me to pass up a 50% off sale; after all, I'm overweight, not stupid. Buy one, get one free, is a deal in which any rational person would partake. I therefore purchase four bags of high-fructose pleasure - saving five dollars - rationalizing it to the fact that I can freeze the treats for next year. I plan to use the five bucks for a low-calorie meal; truly, I have achieved a win-win scenario.

Despite noble intentions, too many marshmallow peanut bars have melted my willpower, and the treats do not survive until next October; actually they don't even endure the trip home. As I debate whether or not to curtain the damage after 7,353 calories, the mantra of all disillusioned dieters haunts its way into my caramel-coated consciousness, "As long as I blew it, I might as well really blow it and start dieting tomorrow." Whether 'tis the dark side of candy corn talking or not, this idea makes sense at the moment and from then on, anything slow enough to get a fork into it becomes my prey. Before dawn, I have consumed more calories than there are zombies walking the streets on all Hallow's eve.

This continues well into the week; soon my stomach resembles the familiar shape of oversized jack o' lantern and my belt can no longer traverse my midline. In order to enjoy the simple pleasure of breathing, I am forced to buy three larger pairs of pants ($29 each), a new belt ($10), and a pullover, extra-large shirt to rid me of the danger of buttons popping from my mid-section and putting someone's eye out ($23). Including tax I'm now out $153!

Of course, I did save five dollars on half price candy, making my net expenditure $148 but that's still one scary after-Halloween sale.

If you'd like to read last year's column about Halloween, click here. To download a spreadsheet in excel to calculate your own savings, click here.)

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 13 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations on goal setting, attitude, and health throughout the country. He can be reached at 707.442.6243, scottq@THINspiration.com or www.ForeverFightingFat.com

Savoring the Moment

2007-10-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

Some moments shoot by too swiftly. Instead of scurrying past, I wish they would linger, slowly, softly, simmering, allowing me to relish the warm richness of life's flavors.

I would cease time when my children first ventured forth uncertainly; wobbling on chubby infant legs, taking their first steps, the realization dawning that their world had just expanded. If that moment lived forever, I would harbor no regrets.

When I fell in love, realizing - this time - I had found my life partner, is another tick of the clock I would solidify. Right then, I felt a connection with an essence holy, ageless, and romantic. If Father Time froze me there, I would not complain.

Those moments, in which we languish, lazily and luxuriously, arrive without notice. Not all are life-changing benchmarks, reserved only for outstanding occasions. They are more frequent, oft times overlooked, as we hasten to get "where we're going," discounting where we are.

The arc of a rainbow across a dreary grey sky, brilliant colors patterned alongside a limitless and grand backdrop deserves a slowdown.

Arising on Saturday - covered neck to toes in a thick, fluffy, fresh comforter - with nothing on one's to-do list, and awakening to the plink-plop-plap of raindrops against the window merits a slower pace. It is further enhanced when one's first thought - "Yich, it's Monday" - is replaced with the realization that rather, this morning is the first day of a lazy weekend.

Joyfully being infected by the uninhibited giggles of small children engaged in a magical world untouched by adult concerns is truly one of life's greatest pleasures. Why would anyone rush that?

Moments as those are common when one watches for them: a warm short-sleeve day on the boardwalk, a light breeze tussling your hair; the close-pressed hug of a friend as she greets you by chance in the course of daily tasks; a shared unexpected chuckle with the sales clerk behind the counter as you exchange pleasantries. They abound, invisible unless sought, adding spice and richness to our existence, making time on this planet worthwhile.

They also serve as reminders that not everything is to be hurried; some experiences need more time.

Always in such a helter-skelter, hell-bent, head-down hurry to lose my extra weight, I plead guilty to not paying attention to the blessings this process brings. Ignoring the confidence of a healthier body, dismissing the new found flexibility, pooh-poohing the confidence of my accomplishments; I am in such a sprint to get "there" that I take no pleasure from "here."

Some things take time. Some deserve it. This process is both.

By the numbers

2007-10-03T17:52:00.000-07:00

When I was learning to count, yet knowledgeable enough with arithmetic to no longer rely on fingers and toes, I pictured the largest number I could imagine: One Hundred. Nothing could be as immense as One Hundred, the King of the numerical empire. Counting to One Hundred was the pinnacle of accomplishment.

This column is our 100th get-together and, despite my increased counting skills, that number still carries significance. For two years, we have discussed health, diets, setbacks, and successes. (OK, actually I discussed it. But I always think of you when I write so that should count for something.)

To me, this is a milestone, a number with emotional significance. In achieving it, I realized how intricately, inextricably, woven into our lives are numbers.

My age? Number 52. Some get embarrassed about the number of years on the planet; I do not, as getting older beats its alternative. My wife and I have been married 6 years, together more than 12. These integers are a reflection of our commitment to each other. I have 2 sons. They live 700 miles away. I like the first number, not so much the second; I would prefer it to be lower. Nonetheless, numbers are what they are, unemotional reflections of the facts of our lives.

So, what's the deal with weight?

Before losing weight, there was no way I would not put "250" on my drivers license. Instead, I opted for a more ego-friendly number, 149, using the mentality of retailers who list prices ending in "9" to lull us into believing it's less costly. I don't fall for that tactic when I buy a sweater; I'm sure the DMV attendant didn't accept it when she saw my immense size. However, good public servant that she was, she let it pass. When my license arrived in the mailbox, sure enough, it showed me as an acceptable 149. Should occasion arise for me to weigh in somewhere - for example, the doctor's office - and the scale should say "250," I could snap out this legally binding document and have it corrected.

Funny how life works...

After losing my weight, and actually weighing 179, I renewed my license, eagerly listing - for the first time - the correct number of pounds. I proudly walked to the counter, handed in the application, gave her my old license, and waited while she did perused the poundage on my paperwork.

She analyzed my old license; studied my renewal, peered at me over the Ben Franklin spectacles perched on her nose, and stated, "179, huh? Last time, you only weighed 149. Might want to consider a diet."

The hottest fashion

2007-09-19T17:28:00.000-07:00

Tumult is parading on the fashion catwalk.

According to Reuters, the world's first ban on overly thin models at a top-level fashion show has been announced in Madrid and is causing no small amount of concern within that industry. Underweight models (those with a body mass index - BMI - of under 18) will not be allowed to walk the runway. The reason cited by organizers is they "want to project an image of beauty and health, rather than waif-like or heroin chic." They believe (and they are most likely accurate) that young girls and women were trying to copy their rail-thin looks and were therefore developing eating disorders. (For comparison, the average American woman is 5' 4" and weighs 140, a BMI of 24, which is considered in the normal range of 18-25. The average American model is 5' 11" and weighs 117 pounds, a BMI of 16.)

I am torn by the decision in Spain.

It is not because I follow the latest designer news nor the ups and downs of Tommy Hilfiger, Donna Karan, or Calvin Klein. Although I find self-image, public health, and the plague of excess weight to be of utmost importance, I also believe personal choice is essential.

Every waking moment of each day, we make choices, which have repercussions; the results become our lives. Without the ability to make such decisions, our learning curve is thwarted and future decisions are poorer, making it more difficult to achieve our potential. Wisdom comes of evaluating our choices.

Conversely, until we possess that good judgment, it is society's moral imperative to protect the innocent from predators who view them as fodder for personal gain.

It is a conundrum. Choice becomes wisdom, which fosters better choices. Yet until we possess such understanding, others must direct our choices, slowing the expansion of wisdom.

More important however is not the dimensions of the model as much as the message of the event. I understand the need to be desirous of a contemporary and fresh appearance (although it matters less as I age). However, imagine a routine where high profile models were judged not by the hang of their outfits as much as the completeness of their character and the fulfilling of their potential.

Picture a catwalk adorned with women - and men - of every age, shape, and size. Each struts proudly a sense of purpose, social consciousness, creativity, knowledge, and - of course - health. Others are drawn to these events by the desire to better themselves and those around them. The ultimate "super model" becomes self-actualization - a fashion that fits beautifully on any body.

Of acne and pant sizes

2007-09-12T09:01:00.000-07:00

I am reminded of my teen years.

One of the most tortuous events of adolescence is the explosion of pimples on one's facial landscape. Unbeknownst to most, these bulbous, bloated, bulging beacons of embarrassment have an intelligence of their own and connive to materialize at the worst possible moment - and in the most awful location. Therefore, it is guaranteed that the morning of the formal prom, one will be greeted in the mirror by a gargantuan red, inflamed, swollen one-inch zit on the tip of your nose. Take it to the bank.

Most people (yes, teens are people) are too polite to say anything when you appear to all the world like a caricature of W.C. Fields, any sinus commercial, and Bozo the Clown. Your day is spent inventing reasons why you cannot move your hand from the front of your face because even though you've tried to conceal the damage with two pounds of blemish makeup (causing your skin to develop the oh-so-attractive, tomblike cast of a mannequin), Captain Blackhead unflinchingly stands out front taunting, "Don't look him in the eyes; instead gawk intently at his red, puffy, swelling."

Ah, such special memories...

Acne might be a thing of my past, but the feelings of embarrassment are identical to when I feel bloated from excess consumption. My stomach becomes a radio station, broadcasting on all channels: "This is a test of the emergency mortification system; for the next 60 minutes, please don't look anywhere else. Glare unblinkingly at his immense, distended, belly while pointing in a mocking fashion. Should this have been a real emergency, you would have been instructed to add humiliating comments. This is only a test."

To compensate, I suck in my abdomen, causing the tonal range of my voice to increase one octave while adding a slightly breathy quality to my speech. (I rationalize this, believing others find it a sexy addition to my speech pattern.)

Of course, there are problems with this approach, most notably would be sitting or bending; as one can never be sure of the tensile strength of button thread under strain. I would feel terrible should the round fastener explode forth from my midline, fly across the room, and put out somebody's eye. I wager the medical report would make history: "Blindness induced by excessive chocolate intake from out-of-control dieter in nearby restaurant booth."

Oh sure, I try using denial. When asked my pants size, I reply proudly (while loosening my belt), "32 W-L-D." Women have descriptors like "petite" or "junior;" why can't men?

"W-L-D? What's that?"

"While lying down." (Unfortunately, it's still a 36 when I stand up.)

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 13 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations on goal setting, attitude, and health throughout the country. He can be reached at 707.442.6243, scottq@THINspiration.com or www.TheEatingCycle.com

Amazing!

2007-09-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

As they ambled up the slope to the restaurant, it was apparent the toddler was new to the concept of walking unaided, holding her mother's hand for security. From behind, her small body was obscured by a lavender backpack that bounced, as if bobbing on waves, with every step. This carryall obscured her frame from heels to head, and was adorned with a joyful smiling purple pony. Above the daypack was a forest of thick, dark brown hair, fashioned into a spout. Below were matching purple pony sneakers that lit up with each footfall.

The path before her held no interest. I - on the other hand - following behind was deserving of intense scrutiny. Her backward glances, coupled with forward movement, and yet-untuned walking skills came together. The result was she tripped and tumbled forward, catching herself before her small face made contact with the floor.

Since I was close enough to be the catalyst to this potentially traumatic event, I couldn't help but overhear the mother's reaction, as she spun and lowered herself to the youngster's level.

"Wow, honey, you're amazing! You caught yourself so quickly! What strong arms you have! You are so athletic!"

Turning to her other daughter, she continued, "Did you see how quickly Jesse reacted? Isn't she wonderful? I am so blessed that I have two incredible daughters with so much talent and grace. What an amazing day this is! Tonight's meal will be a celebration of my children."

She brushed off Jesse's clothing, embraced both daughters (took Jesse's hand), and the threesome disappeared into the eatery.

Aside from wanting to hug this prize-winning mother for instilling such fantastic and life-affirming attitudes, my initial reaction was a reminder of the power of words.

How often have we been unwitting victim, forced to endure overhearing the painful tirade of a parent with lesser skills berating a youngster for a mistake? My soul cries for that child's future; it is bleak.

Yet, equally true - and infinitely more optimistic - is the empowered and unlimited tomorrows to be enjoyed by these sisters upon reaching womanhood. It is as assured as the fact that Jesse loves purple ponies.

What we say matters more than we realize. It affects what we feel, which determines what we do; in effect, carving out - word by word - the path of our lives. Not only is it vital what we say to our children, and to each other, but also equally as critical what we verbalize to ourselves.

When was the last time you referred to yourself as "amazing?" Jesse would tell you that you are.

Before I begin...

2007-08-29T17:09:00.001-07:00

I earn my living speaking. I feel alive when delivering motivational, energetic presentations to enthused audiences. Yet the irony is I spend most of my time isolated, without employees, working from an office in my house while my family is gone. Hour after hour slides by as I tap relentlessly on keyboard, stare at computer monitor, and write - alone.

Leading a solitary life, I have learned to be somewhat organized; I have no staff to assist me. Granted, I periodically curse and rant when I cannot find that which I seek because of poor filing. Gratefully, I am not on the other end of the spectrum bellowing, "Where are my glasses?" only to have my wife call back, "You're wearing them."

As I said, I keep things in their place - mostly.

That does not forgo within me an interest in improving my organizational skills. Therefore I made an appointment with a professional organizer. These dedicated denizens of domestic direction and design are on the front lines in the battle against entropy; expanding our horizons with hanging files, work zones, and paper flow. The results, I'm informed, are increased productivity, less stress, and a "reclaiming of one's space." This I find to be a highly respectable goal because credit card receipts, unsolicited faxes, and projects I'll do "one of these days" too often claim my space and battle to take it back. (As an aside, I found assurance - and humor - in the fact that the Professional Organizer lost my address.)

Yet, I digress.

Before her arrival, I found myself busily straightening my workspace, shredding papers, dusting shelves, and lugging boxes. Somewhere between chronologically ordering my CD collection, and using a ruler to make sure all wall hangings were parallel and equally spaced, the folly of my operation struck me.

I need her help but act as if I don't. I did not want her to realize my flaws. Gasp! She'll think I'm human!

It brought me back to promising I would return to my weight loss meetings AFTER I lost "those five pounds." Huh? How'd that work the last 16 times I did that? Do I truly believe people can't tell I'm having trouble on my diet unless I seek help? I hefted a 44-inch belly, and convinced myself that holding in my stomach would fool others to believe I had six-pack abs. Amazing how we can fool ourselves, isn't it?

Even powerful people have needs. Admit it. Embrace it. Correct it. It's actually surprisingly empowering to "own" who you are.

Oops, gotta go. I just noticed the maid is coming and I have to clean the house before she arrives.

My confession

2007-08-22T20:11:00.000-07:00

Since my age was counted in single digits, I've been dieting. If I assembled in one place all the pounds I've lost (and found again), it would sink a whale. I scan food packaging for terms like "low fat," "sugar free," or "no calories." I record how many glasses of water I drink and how many miles I walk. I weigh myself week in and week out in special pre-weighed "weigh in clothes." (I even know my belt weights 3.4 ounces, how's that for detail?) I speak to audiences around the country on the topic and, of course, I write this column, which is printed in several cities.

Everyone who knows me - and I mean EVERYONE - understands I am a professional dieter. There must therefore be at least a glimmer of recognition inherent in that knowledge that I just might have a few "issues" about eating.

So why do I try to keep it secret when I slip up on my program? It's as if by not admitting my error, no one will notice my weight problem. Granted, since I'm currently at my (mostly) correct weight, some might be shocked at what I can pack away in a binge. But - can I be honest? When I sported a 44-inch waist and topped 250 pounds - someone, somewhere, might have had an itsy-bitsy inkling that I could be squirreling away a few tortilla chips now and then.

Yet, I ate in secret. I hid food in my bedroom (and car... and closet... and dresser... and - well, you get the image). If the last slice of cake was missing - and no one else was around - I'd still shake my chocolate smudged face boldface denying 'twas I who finished it.

"Gremlins must have eaten it," my mother would say.

I'd nod my head as if chubby, unworldly beings really did sneak into the kitchen and make off with the baked goods. She said nothing else. I remained silent.

Here's the thing. Even now, admitting I overeat makes me ashamed of my weakness. My critical parent screams at my compliant kid (therapists will love that sentence), "You're a failure! What's wrong with you?"

So I deny the deed. The result? Guilt for being dishonest replaces the shame.

Either option inspires more eating to medicate the pain. If guilt and shame were motivational, I'd be bone skinny.

My way out is to own my problem, boldly and upfront. Therefore, at the risk of bursting your bubble, I stand before you to announce I slip up. I make mistakes. I err. I'll probably do it again. Hard to believe I'm not perfect, huh?

Please understand that. I'll do the same for you.

Keep a Good Thought

2007-08-15T18:52:00.000-07:00

My wife and I tried breaking our nightly routine. To alleviate muscle aches, we deduced that if we each slept on side of the bed where the other person usually lies, we might arise pain free. (It made sense in the moment.)

I make no claim that swapping pillows is a valiant act of bravado. That does nothing to diminish the reality that it, in fact, was awkward. Not simply "I-normally-don't-wear-this-color-so-I-feel-like-everyone's-staring-at-me" unpleasant; it was more akin to "Did-I-forgot-to-zip-something?" anxiety. We tossed, turned, bumped into each other multiple times, and waited twitchily for the arrival of Hypnos, the God of Slumber, only to be jilted on the mattress. After several fidgety hours, reverting to positions of yore, we obtained at last a modicum of shut-eye.

It's not as if my bride and I, while writing our vows, discussed who would lay claim to which side of the bed. "Do you, Scott, promise to love, cherish, and support Mary Ann until the end of your days - while swearing to snooze faithfully on the section of bed furthest from the nightstand?"

No, that's not how it happens. Customs emerge. One moment, it's an arbitrary behavior, next instant: Habit. Isn't that how it is?

We set up repetitive behaviors for our ease; then, something alters them. We are naked, abandoned, and lonely. Without habit's landmarks, direction is lost; uneasiness swamps us. So, we rush back as quickly as possible, reassured finally by the embrace of the familiar.

This morning, as I left our home, I mentioned to my wife, "Keep a good thought." Neither a particularly sage nor unique turn of phrase, its sentiment is kind, and I meant it sincerely. Yet, it's another of those expressions that rolls off the tongue without thought: another habit.

And as I routinely walked 17 minutes down E Street and 11 minutes back on F Street (stopping at the regular time at "my" coffee house so I could sit at "my" table with a daily cup of coffee and read the morning newspaper), I realized how much of life is ordered on preset molds.

Awakening and sleeping are based on the clock. Workday functions are a matter of rote. Even my attitude is usually balanced. When events go awry - just as habitually - I eat to handle stress, then walk to handle the eating. Habits, patterns, routines everywhere.

I'm not complaining (mostly). I am fortunate; my challenges are less than those faced by many others. But that does not preclude me from wondering what I would see if I more often "shook it up" and did something off my beaten path, experiencing life with atypical eyes?

A good thought; one I must remember.

Stop that right now!

2007-08-08T17:17:00.000-07:00

What are you looking around for? You know I'm talking to you. Yes, you - no, not the guy behind you. I'm speaking to YOU. Look at me; quit pretending you think I'm referring to someone else.

Now, just stop; it's for your own good. We both know it.

Yes, I know you're busy. You have so many responsibilities and commitments. But that's not going to fly this time. We're all busy. We're all overloaded. It's a matter of priorities, plain and simple. This time, make it work, OK?

Oh, more excuses? Well, welcome to Excuse Central pal; know 'em all. Got 'em all right here. "Just a little bit won't hurt." "I deserve it; it's been a tough week." How about this one: "When things settle down, I'll do it." I don't mean to be rude or crude, but the only time things will totally settle down is when six friends are carrying you away in a box.

Of course, there's always my favorite: "I can stop whenever I want." Yeah, right. If you can stop anytime, why did you let it get so out of control?

Do you enjoy unending aches and pains? Isn't it just oodles of amusement avoiding the dark side of the closet because you're afraid those unused clothes "shrunk" since you last wore them? Are we having fun now?

And finally, the ultimate kick in the pants: that undisguised glance in someone's eyes when she can't cloak how surprised she is by how large you've become since she last saw you. Just makes you feel warm all over doesn't it? Sure, sure, she covers it quickly; after all, she's not trying to be rude. But for that moment - that one, brief, instantaneous, short-lived, horrifyingly candid, flash - your sole desire is to drop through a hole in the floor. Honestly, do you really want to deal with that again? How many times will you avoid friends to prevent that from happening?

What's that? You DON'T like those feelings? Oh, good, we're making progress. But you don't have the energy to change?

I hear you! But, how much energy does it take for the 24-hour discomfort in your own skin? Or missing out on your kid's lives because you're too tired to play? How much of your precious life-force do you waste feeling bad about yourself every thinking moment of each and every day? Makes the effort more worthwhile, doesn't it?

Ready to stop now? Good. I'm pleased for you.

Step one is stop talking to this mirror; get out there, and take a walk.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus lost 70 pounds in 1994 and is a professional speaker. He is available for speeches, workshops, or comments at 707.442.6243 or scottq@THINspiration.com. His new book, "Striving for Imperfection, 52 Motivational, Playful Columns on Weight Loss, Habit Change, and Other Acts of Faith," is available at amazon.com or, by contacting him, or visiting www.TheEatingCycle.com

End of the Rat Race

2007-08-01T15:47:00.000-07:00

In younger days, everything was equally urgent and all things were critical. Was she adorned in the latest fashions? Did he have the hottest car? Were they vacationing at the fanciest locales? Missing one step would devastate an entire month's image.

Something unreachable, invisible, just out of grasp, was always required to complete their happiness, leaving an unfilled void at all times. Someday, they might find "It" and then, suddenly, like the sun breaking through a stormy sky, everything would be perfect. Until then, additions kept coming, agendas overflowed, and dollars kept draining. Constantly striving for perfection, most times they overlooked what was good.

Their schedule was no longer their own. Fighting traffic for hours in late model autos serving as communication central, entertainment centers, and even mobile kitchens, they would text message "I love you" to each other a few times a day so they would have at least have some connection. Over time, even that became a preprogrammed memo stored in speed dial - intimacy with an efficient edge.

As the future became the past, the bills mounted, the pressures piled - the treadmill snapped.

"I'm not happy anymore," he said. He wasn't looking at her; instead his eyes were fixed on the almost-consumed cake with "Happy 45th" on the top. The guests had departed and his words bounced off blank walls and echoed as they fell heavy to the floor between them.

She was neither angry nor surprised. He was merely the first to say out loud what they both felt.

Marriage counseling, frustration, and crying (by both of them): a long road back but they made it. They had tried so hard to do everything perfectly, to lead a fantasy life; it almost cost them their own.

Now - tonight - she watched him cut through "75 Years Young" on the white frosting as the crowd sang "Happy Birthday," no one more enthusiastically than she.

When the guests left, as they lay in bed, he reached out and squeezed her hand gently.

"I love you more than I knew I could," he said as he was drifting off to sleep, "You're as beautiful as ever. I'm so lucky."

His eyes closed, a smile fixed on his lips.

Staring into the mirror across the bed, she saw deep lines etched in her face, white in her hair, spots on her skin, and a lovely, sleeping elderly man beside her. She put the book in her lap down, shut off the light, slipped under the blankets behind him, putting her head on his back and as she closed her eyes.

Funny how things turn out, everything now was as close to perfect as she ever imagined.

Note: this is a sequel to an earlier post. It was requested that I complete the story by a reader.

Theoretical versus actual

2007-07-25T17:09:00.000-07:00

Today (as planned):

Arise early smiling and refreshed; greet world with 45-minute brisk walk while listening to singing birds under sunny blue skies. Stop at coffee shop and read the paper; joyously greeting each person. Eat a healthy, balanced, nutritious breakfast while connecting with my wife. Drink three glasses of filtered water as a treat.
Answer all e-mail. Write my column; infused with wit and insight. Send materials to three potential speaking opportunities, confident they'll hire me for twice asking price. Complete assignments for all clients prior to promised deadlines.
Reconcile credit card statements, set up automatic banking to pay each and every bill for next three years. Buy groceries. Straighten office.
Have lunch with a friend. Sit in the sun on a swing, singing. Watch entertaining, uplifting video. Have a wine cooler. Relax. Count blessings.

Today (actual):

Got up late after throwing alarm with annoying buzzer at wall. Dragged my panting, sweaty, dreary, flabby body around the block for 10 minutes. Gagged down chalky instant breakfast while watching exercise infomercial. Waved to wife as she went to work. Decided extra caffeinated coffee is a "need," not a "want."
Spent 45 minutes sifting through email about sexual potency, mortgages, and African expatriates offering me money. Stared at blank page while occasionally pounding head on desk to alleviate writer's block. (Took several aspirin.) Made one phone call where I was relegated to "voice mail hell" for 24 minutes. Cursed at automated voice. Slammed down phone; breaking mouthpiece.
Shoved bills from one messy pile to another. Decided to scrape green fuzz off last week's leftovers for dinner. Came to terms with the fact that my office will always look like it was designed by tornado.
Had three-hour chocolate binge fest; felt guilty (and fat) so I blamed my wife for having snacks in the house. (Learned new definition to "unwise decision.") Weather was cloudy so I zoned out with two martinis in front of TV while watching imbecilic sitcoms (which, in my mood, actually seemed appealing). Fell into restless sleep on couch, with face in drool stain on pillow.

Someone said happy people simply accept life on its own terms. As my Yiddish grandmother Zlate said (in addition to countless repetitions of "Oy Vay"), "Mann plant Gott lach;" translated, "Man plans, God laughs."

I must remember it's not about getting it done. It's about how I feel about what was done. It's not how far I have to travel, it's how far I have come.

Today: not so good. I was frustrated. But tomorrow, I try again. That's excellent.

Real food for real men

2007-07-18T19:41:00.000-07:00

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

And right now, after months of light-weight food with no taste - and even less heft - I've got a heavy hankerin' for a triple-meatball, pepperoni sausage, six-cheese submarine sandwich, oozing over a warm, doughy foot long toasted Mozzarella Parmesan Italian roll, followed by a family-size order of cottage fries (sans family) smothered in chili cheese sauce. The chaser for this gloriously caloric feast will be a chocolate chunk, hyper-sized, milk shake stuffed with peanut butter blobs and overflowing with rich syrup.

I'm a-fixin' to eat me something solid - and once I've got it in my mind, my diet is history.

I suck in my gut, march boldly into the sandwich shop, and swagger to the counter. Feet resolutely planted, I stand my ground in an oh-so-macho fashion and make direct eye contact with the young woman behind the register. Actually, I don't know if young women consider middle-aged, slightly soft, bespectacled, grey-haired men to be manly, but red meat, elevated-cholesterol, saturated-fat meals seem to me a masculine food; I must place myself in the right frame of mind prior to ordering.

She asks, "What would you like?" (I am amazed she is not swooning from the animal magnetism I exude.)

"Forget the calories, Scott; go for it!" I hear in my head.

Clearing my throat, I deepen my voice, and - for causes unbeknownst to me - reply in a crackling, tinny, scratchy sound, "Veggie sandwich. Diet soda."

Sean Connery had entered the restaurant; Woody Allen had ordered.

In my mind, I'm pounding my forehead with the heel of my hand, screaming, "What in Heaven's name are you doing? You passing up the mother lode of meats for sprouts and cucumbers again! Have you no pride?"

Over my internal din, I hear her ask, "Anything else?"

Ah-ha, an opportunity to redeem myself! Go for it Scott! Take the plunge; live on the edge! There's still time.

"No mayo please - and light on the cheese."

Arggh! It's as if I'm channeling elderly English ladies at high tea. Next thing you know, I'm going to tastefully chew ladyfingers while eating with my pinky in the air.

I see myself a ferocious carnivorous lion, chasing prey across the African savannah; yet, what repeatedly materializes is my inner bunny, nibbling carrot tops at the petting zoo.

Other people eat red meat without stress. What's wrong with Me?

The blood pounds loudly in my temples. "Wait!" I blurt out, "I want to change my order."

"Yes?" She looks up, knife poised to cut the bread.

"Give me extra spicy mustard. I can handle it."

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational Speaker, lost 70 pounds in 1994 and is a professional speaker. He can be reached by calling 707.442.6243, emailing scottq@scottqmarcus.com - or by visiting his other blog at scottq.typepad.com

Think about it

2007-07-04T21:55:00.000-07:00

"What are you thinking about?"

"Huh?"

"You look so deep in thought. I was just wondering what you're thinking about."

"Oh, um, well... nothing really. Just thinking."

"How can you think about 'nothing?' Do you imagine 'everything' covered by a big red circle with a diagonal slash over it?"

"Don't be cute. You know I hate that. Since you need to know more, I was just thinking about 'stuff.' Is that better?"

"'Stuff.' Hmmm. That covers a wide range. Is it philosophical 'stuff' like the sound of one hand clapping? Is it practical 'stuff?' Paying the bills, cleaning the house? Or do you allow your 'stuff' to fly on flights of fancy and think of tropical islands with open-air huts and warm breezes? 'Stuff' encompasses a lot you know."

"Jeeze, you're nosy. If you must know I was thinking about food."

"Ahh. Now we're getting somewhere. Can you be more specific? You seem to drift toward the vague."

"Sorry, I didn't know I had to run everything by you to make sure the details were hashed out."

"Hashed out? Food again?"

"Fifty thousand comedians are out of work and you're cracking wise! No, that comment was not food related."

"Sounds like we're making progress. So tell me about food. Do you think about food all the time?"

"No, just when I'm awake. When I'm sleeping, I dream about it."

"Now who's being cute?"

"OK, but they're my thoughts, not yours. I can be cute with them if I want to. Seriously, when I'm eating breakfast, I'm thinking about what to have for lunch. At lunch, it's dinner. After dinner, I think about eating anything that's slow enough to stick a fork into it."

"Sleeping cats better be nervous, huh?"

"It's not funny. Food sometimes feels like an obsession. It's hard to stay on my diet when I'm always thinking about what to eat."

"I was wondering -"

"Oh, I hate it when you start sentences like that. You're really trying to put another thought in my head and you think I won't notice it if you start with 'I was wondering.'"

"As I said, I was wondering... How would it feel if instead of saying 'Dieting is hard,' you said, 'Eating healthy is exciting. I feel great when I do it.' That's true too, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah. I just don't know if I can."

"Tell you what. Put me in touch with the guy who controls your thoughts and we'll fix you up and get back to you."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, I can be snarky sometimes. But if you change the way you look at it, you might do better, wouldn't you agree?"

"It's worth a thought."

Things that go Yum in the Night

2007-06-27T16:05:00.000-07:00

My sons finished their pizza and departed for the evening's events. My wife was asleep upstairs, leaving me unaccompanied in the silence of the night. Not a sound was to be heard, save the creaking of settling hardwood floors and the whispering lingering melody of wind chimes on the darkened front porch.

From the kitchen, hauntingly and gently, I hear, "Scott."

Startled, as I thought I was alone, I seek out the source of the voice. The door to the stairs remained silently and tightly closed. Both boys were still gone, and I was convinced neither of our cats could articulate my name so distinctly.

Again: "Hey, Scott. In here."

There was no mistake. Uneasily, I entered the kitchen, trying to hold down the cold, creeping, convulsions climbing my spinal column.

This is where it gets weird.

As I live and breathe, the leftover pizza on the table was calling to me in an eerie, enticing, siren-like, hauntingly seductive intone.

A brief digression is in order. If you've never had to battle a weight problem, right about now, you're probably putting down the newspaper, shaking your head in disgust, thinking I've had one too many slices of Hawaiian, deep-dish, heavy-on-the-mushrooms, extra saucy triangles of pizza and am writing while encased in a mind-altered pepperoni hallucination. Yet, those who struggle with each calorie are - at this exact same moment - nodding their heads enthusiastically in agreement, tapping this print, shoving it under somebody's nose, proclaiming victoriously, "See, I told you! Pizza does call out to me!"

What makes this so especially sinister is that the food waits until no one else is around to hear its call. Seeking to lure us into a viselike grip, in the wee hours it chants, "Just one piece won't hurt," or "Come on, you know you want it."

Not only is pizza garrulous, its knowledge of psychology is worthy of a treatise. I, as a 51-year-old, can resist the urge to steal, cheat, and lie; yet find myself a powerless infant to the calling of the One Most Cheesy.

Knowing my weakness, I muster all my power and thrust the loquacious doughy demon down the disposal and flip the switch, victorious this time over its taunts.

Bolting from the kitchen, unsure how long my strength will remain, I am convinced that a creepy choir of tortilla chips, ice cream, peanut butter, and all things chocolate, were calling out, offering their support.

To see my "expert blog" on eons.com, please go to: http://community.eons.com/blogs/blog/scottqmarcus

Being Mean

2007-06-20T17:25:00.000-07:00

Before I venture down this road, it is prudent of me to inform you of my past.

Ten pounds at birth, and always overweight as a child, my mother was troubled because other babies pushed away the bottle when full; I never did. I also recall unmistakably the humiliation of being the fattest child on the playground and the mortification of showering in front of other boys after gym class. Even at adulthood, the low self-esteem that marked my youth required years of therapy to wash away.

Understand please I don't wish those experiences on any child; as I move forward.

According to the AP, there is debate about how to label the condition of heavy children. Currently they are said to be "at risk for overweight" if their body-mass index (BMI) is between the 85th and 94th percentiles; in other words, they weigh more than 85 to 94 percent of their peers (based on historical averages). They're called "overweight" if their BMI is the 95th percentile or higher. The American Medical Association, and others, are considering changing this and using the same terms applied to adults - "overweight" or "obese."

Labeling a child obese might "run the risk of making them (or their family) angry," but it addresses a serious issue head-on, said Dr. Reginald Washington, of the American Academy of Pediatrics obesity task force. "There are a thousand reasons why (obesity) is out of control ... one of them is no one wants to talk about it."

Obese "sounds mean. It doesn't sound good," said Trisha Leu, 17, who thinks changing the terms is wrong.

Following is what I believe.

Having been "there," "mean" was being taunted mercilessly as a teenager for having so much extra weight that it appeared I had breasts.

"Mean" was being the last one chosen to play kickball and listening to my teammates curse their rotten luck.

"Mean" was overhearing girls in high school describe in explicit detail how dreadful it would be to kiss me.

"Mean" was binge eating to erase the day's pain, only to have it return worse with morning's light.

I have compassion - and concern - for our children; one can feel both simultaneously. From my experience however, it is far "meaner" to mask reality with insincere descriptions, condemning them to unhealthy futures, than it is to educate honesty, informing them that although their weight does not determine self-worth, it does affect wellbeing. Then, we guide them gently to a healthier lifestyle with support and love. How about we even accompany them on their path?

That would be the nice thing to do.

Gotta Get Out More

2007-06-06T20:06:00.000-07:00

There are countless words describing my childhood; "athletic" is not one.

But when the merry tinkling of the ice cream truck drifted across hot summer afternoons on Rensellor Avenue, I would sprint and leap like a gold medalist on springs. Catching sight of my 150-pound, four-foot-tall frame barreling down the sidewalk, quarter in hand, hell-bent for chocolate coated ice cream was a jaw-dropping spectacle. If I stretched out my arms, I would have achieved liftoff.

Over time, I learned to temper my outward exuberance for treats, figuring if no one saw me eat, they wouldn't notice I was fat. Mind you, I didn't actually stop eating loads of sugar; I just didn't barrel full-steam down the street to get them like some out-of-control locomotive. Instead I opted for more discreet methods such as shaving small slivers from cake instead of taking a slice (making it less apparent to the untrained eye that I had eaten some), or hiding chocolate in my clothes (always a special treat for mom on laundry day - especially if she didn't inspect my pockets first).

If a tree falls in the woods, yes, it does make a sound. So too, if a pound cake is consumed stealthily, it retains its calories. Concealing food does nothing to disguise the results; a 44-inch waist being a reliable indicator of surplus caloric consumption - even if no one observes it.

Please forgive my youthful transgressions, as I was then addled from a non-ending influence of high fructose corn syrup and have come to see the error of my ways, opting now for skim milk (called "the blue stuff" by professional dieters), high fiber breads ("cardboard") and fat free cheeses ("rubber").

Fast forward: My wife went to visit family this week, leaving me to fend for myself. No one will mistake me for a chef, but I do OK. Insert in microwave. Hit start. Peel cardboard. Consume. I won't write any cookbooks; but I don't starve either.

Being lonely, I wanted a "fun food;" you know, something special, a rare treat. Yet years of discipline have left their toll and I begrudgingly opted for salad.

While resigning myself to the doldrums of leafy greenery, I noticed a bottle of full-calorie, creamy white, ranch dressing - the real stuff, not that gelatinous fat-free goop mislabeling itself as "tasty."

With bold abandon, I measured one full tablespoon and poured it right on top of my salad; plain as day. In full view - and I didn't care! What a thrill seeker am I! And then, I ate it - in daylight - just like that!

At that moment I realized I really have to get out more.

What choices put him there?

2007-05-30T17:55:00.000-07:00

It was a most unlikely sight.

He - late thirties, looking older - supported a worn, faded, red backpack over his denim jacket as he trudged down our street. What drew my attention however was the bright yellow blanket with large blue stars and comets draped over his right shoulder; obviously a child's. The apparent reason for this colorful cloth was the small boy holding his father's hand as they headed down the street.

Earlier, on my morning walk, our paths crossed a few miles from here. At that time, he carried the sleeping boy over his shoulder, wrapped in the cosmically decorated fabric. It is curious to witness a man transporting a small blanket-wrapped youngster through the morning streets, so I offered assistance.

"Nah," was his reply. "I just need a ride. But thanks."

He continued walking; hoisting the child, while his free hand - with thumb outstretched - sought to hitch a ride.

Since then, an hour had passed and the boy was walking - tiredly - with his father carrying the blanket. Each time a car whizzed by, dad extended his thumb. Each time, the driver paid no heed and the duo trudged on. Together, one unit, repeating the pattern, they continued down the sidewalk and I watched them shrink and disappear into the distance.

The uniqueness of their plight caused me wonder. What choices had he made to put them here today? Were they poor decisions and now he was paying a price? If he had known the future, would he have acted differently? What circumstances put a father and son together, walking miles, seeking transportation, adorned in a bright yellow blanket on a cloudy, misty morning? It is so surprising the decisions others make. Why don't they think it out? Don't they see?

I entered my house to change my clothes and faced the mirror. Five decades leaves its calling card: what was firm is soft, what was flat now sags. Was this my doing? It is simple to dissect others' actions, complacently directing their lives. But when the reflection looking back is one's own, smugness quickly evaporates.

What choices had I made to put me here today? Was I now paying a price? If I had known my future, would I have acted differently? Did I think it out? Didn't I see?

He did what he did, and is where he is - as am I. Resentment, judgment, and regret serve no purpose. Yet tomorrow remains wide open with all things possible. Decisions do matter; I must choose wisely.

The Rules

2007-05-23T15:16:00.000-07:00

We are raised to follow rules.

The process begins as children with "small rules," whereby penalty for infraction is a "time out," a mind-numbingly dull exile to bedroom isolation, where all I could do was stare at a faded yellow wall as the clock ticked away hours. Over time, I came to understand the cost of such banishment was not worth breaking house regulations. Therefore, I came home by curfew, attended school when I'd rather be at the beach, and dutifully dragged the bent, steel garbage can to the curb each Tuesday night. Following rules gave me freedom.

"Big rules" are called "laws," where violations result in extreme unpleasantness enforced by well-trained strong men with crisply ironed blue uniforms and black steel weapons at their sides. Those who break these rules sacrifice self-determination through long-term adult "time outs" behind metal bars.

Being somewhat compliant, I operate within the confines of rules. I pay taxes by April 15, do not drive 80 miles an hour, and attempt to treat others the way I want to be treated. Because of adherence to these edicts, my life usually flows more smoothly.

So, here's the thing: Despite the fact that I obey the law; honor codes of ethics, and follow behavioral etiquette, I remain perplexed by my periodic futile attempts to ignore the most powerful, omnipotent, and all-pervasive "Prime Rule of the Universe" which is, "the Universe will not change its rules to accommodate my whims, fantasies, and desires." Simply put, "If I always do what I've always done, I'll always be where I've always been." Ignorance is no excuse; there is no court of appeals, clemency does not exist.

Yet I proclaim, "This time will be different; I'll lose the weight. This time, I'll be perfect." Although - aside from more enthusiastic lip service - I don't actually DO anything differently from all the OTHER times I espoused that same pronouncement. Soon, frustrated and angry again, I grumble about my results (or lack thereof), as they are exactly what they were each previous time I did the same thing. "Why?" I ask. "This isn't fair!"

Undeterred by reality, I persist, repeatedly hurling myself into the same patterns, expecting new results. Finally, exhausted and defeated, I realize that instead of walking into walls, I can open a door. I obey the rules and try a new approach; I change.

"IT" will never be different. "I" must be different. Those are the rules. And once I accept that, I set myself free.

The Salad Bar

2007-05-17T11:47:00.000-07:00

Today, dear traveler, we shall venture into the land of the salad bar, a glorious and wondrous place for dieters. Please keep hands and arms inside the bus as I assume the role of tour guide, enlightening you with tips for better consumption.

There are two types of bars: one consists of glass bowls of leafy lettuce, crinkle-cut carrots, and sliced celery, nested in clear cutlery that frustratingly swirl about in craters of ice, making it impossible to use the supplied (always incorrect) utensil to retrieve anything. Periodically, baby corn or garbanzo beans add some taste to this bland assortment of fibrous, flavorless, foods. Since such a salad bar is indeed simply a "salad bar," there is no reason to maximize intake. Just grab a small plate and be done. After all (I don't mean to be cynical), who cares?

However, the hosts of heaven sing when we spy a long-row, deluxe, salad bar, whereby tomatoes and mushrooms are present merely to give the title "salad bar" a smidgen of authenticity. Upon moving down the aisle, twisting and bending to avoid the annoying "sneeze shield" (which is never correctly placed) we venture into exciting terrain, commencing with olives (green and black), pickles, pasta salad, macaroni salad, potato salad, and carrot salad. This hodgepodge of sub salads is reason enough to rejoice; yet the rumbling joy in one's belly is merely beginning.

We leave the concept of "salad" in our wake as we can load our plate with thick fried potatoes, tater rounds, French fries, and mashed potatoes. A multi-cultural experience commences as fried chicken, mini-tacos, pizza, and egg rolls share space with sushi, tempura, and spaghetti; leaving just enough room for a bowl of cheddar cheese, cream of potato, or taco soup.

While steadying precariously this collected cornucopia of caloric courses, add crackers (saltine or breadstick), bread, rolls, and a bagel; each slathered with butter, cream cheese, or peanut butter. Hang from the thumb, the wire tray compilation of aluminum tins holding a treasure trove of flavored jams, jellies, and preserves.

With experience, one can further learn to balance chocolate, vanilla - or the more exotic tapioca pudding. A second bowl allows for a choice of three flavors of ice cream, chocolate syrup, maraschino cherries, and of course whipped cream.

One might wonder why I have strayed from discussing salad dressings (next to the impulse items: bacon bits, croutons, sunflower seeds, raisins, peanuts, and crispy fried noodles). It would be wrong; after all, one chooses salad bars to watch one's weight.

Back to nature

2007-05-02T17:51:00.000-07:00

For me, exercise consists of walking to the grocery store to pick up a gallon of ice cream. I require goals; meandering wistfully along the beach - no matter how picturesque - doesn't fill that objective.

However, my wife insists we get "out in nature." I am unsure why this is essential. After all, I ride a bicycle and take a daily walk, both of which are outside the confines of my house. Isn't that "nature?"

I don't have a problem with "nature" per se; I'm just not sure where are its boundaries. How far from home must I go to be in it? Why isn't it closer? When I leave the window open, is not the breeze flowing through my screen, "nature"? Weekly, I brave the flora and fauna of my front law - all part of nature I presume - as I mow it. (My wife insists trimming the grass is as similar to "being in nature" as rearranging patio chairs is to landscaping.)

Don't get me wrong, I hold nothing against the great outdoors; I even watch the weather channel. It's just, that nature is so darn, well - how can I say this - "natural." I get cold in nature. Dirt gets on my clothing. When I go to Nature, I must put on special trail shoes with laces long enough to tie down an ocean liner. The extra loops and flaps on these shoes baffle me and make me feel stupid.

When my wife is bored, I inevitably hear, "Honey, let's do something different."

I hate that sentence; I know where it's going - and it's not inside.

"Such as?" I'll ask, hoping my preconceptions are wrong.

"I don't know. What would you like to do?"

See, this confuses me. I'm content doing what I'm doing or I would already be doing "something different." I enjoy doing things the same. I know how to do them.

"How about (... wait for it, wait for it...) we go to nature?"

I attempt to delay the fait accompli. "It's cold outside."

"Wear a jacket."

"It's windy."

"Put on a scarf."

"My scarf's itchy."

Accepting the inescapable, my cranky inner child bundles up in prickly neck wear, overstuffed coat, insulated gloves, and ski mask, to join my wife on the beach - perfectly timed for an arctic blast of freezing cold wind, carrying sharp pin-pricks of icy sea mist to slam into my glasses, making it impossible to see.

Unaware of my trauma, she says, "Isn't this beautiful?"

Too wrapped in protection to move freely, I merely grunt, and imagine warmer times in my living room, staring out the window, observing nature where it belongs.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus lost 70 pounds in 1994 and is a professional speaker. He is available for speeches, workshops, or comments at 707.442.6243 or scottq@THINspiration.com. His new book, "Striving for Imperfection, 52 Motivational, Playful Columns on Weight Loss, Habit Change, and Other Acts of Faith," is now available by contacting him or visiting www.TheEatingCycle.com

Those Were the Days

2007-04-25T18:32:00.000-07:00

I miss plopping myself on the sofa, watching TV late at night, a gallon tub of premium, chocolate fudge, brownie, mint swirl, marshmallow, cashew ice cream in my lap; decadently swirling the spoon along the edges of the carton (because that's the softer part and it doesn't bend the utensil).

Longingly, I remember buckets of extra-crispy, double doughy, steaming-hot, deep-fried chicken with moist mashed potatoes drowning under a pond of gravy; a soft, warm, flaky, slightly browned, oversized biscuit to soak it all up.

As a child, before days when LDL and triglycerides mattered, I looked forward to Sunday breakfast. Together we sat for a sugar-laden, high caloric, feast prepared lovingly by Mom. So much food filled the kitchen that it covered the table, a small tray, and overflowed on to the turquoise Formica kitchen counter.

Our ritual commenced with eggs scrambled with salami and cheese - real cheese, not the low fat imitation - in puddles of butter. Sharing the plate would be three pancakes, with syrup (and butter); onion rolls, bagels, cream cheese (or butter); and hash browns (fried in butter). In the event we finished the meal with even a thimble full of space remaining in our bellies, it was filled with seven-layer chocolate cake and black and white cookies. One never knows how long it'll be until the next meal; better eat up.

I long for those simple days.

Yet, I don't miss the embarrassment of pants so stretched that buttons popped off in history class, or so tight on my portly legs that the seam split while playing tetherball; sending me crying across the playground, mortified as the other children laughed at me.

As a teen, the girls in my neighborhood conducted a survey as to who was the best looking boy. Richard Gast came in first; my face came in second. I have no interest in returning to times when I was described as, "a great personality with a nice face."

"Great personality" was a euphemism I detested.

I have no desire to return to times of avoiding doctors, finding excuses not to meet new people, suffering chest pains, steering clear of family reunions, shopping in husky sections - and living merely to overindulge in ice cream, fried chicken, and big buttery breakfasts.

I do miss those childhood tastes upon my tongue; a day doesn't pass when I don't mourn my mother. However, I'm happier now than I was back then.

That's important to remember.

The curse of perfectionism

2007-04-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

The alarm clock rattles, buzzes, and wretches. As I force myself to face my day, I am immediately overwhelmed with all I must complete, everything I must do - and immediately yank the blankets back over my head artfully, slamming the snooze button in one fluid motion.

There's always tomorrow; all things become possible in the new day. Today, I'll coast.

As a recovering perfectionist, I understand perfection is an impossible pursuit, yet for some unknowable reason I crave that title anyway. The hitch isn't my desire, it's my actions - or more accurately, lack thereof - caused by trying to be perfect instead of actually working to be better.

In past days, I thought I had to be "the perfect dieter:" avoiding EVERY snack, steering clear of ANY treats, and swearing off ALL nibbling. As life would have it, without thinking, I mindlessly munch a handful of nuts from my co-workers desk, a habit I've repeated countless times. Once I realize what I've just done, I am embarrassed and disappointed by my actions, as well as ashamed of my lack of willpower.

A decision is at hand. I mull my options, navigating the fierce storm raging within. I could consider this faux pas as human error, eat a little less tonight, congratulate myself for adjusting, and move closer to my goal.

Or, as a full member of Perfectionists United (known as "P.U."), chant our mantra (join me if you know the words), "As long as I blew it, I'll really blow it, and start again tomorrow." Soon therefore, an entire bowl of peanuts vanishes, as do extra brownies from the office party, and two bags of chips from the employee cabinet. I weigh more now than when the alarm blared.

What would have been a minor detour has become a full-stop road closure - because of my perfectionist objectives. When I try to break these bonds, they even slip cancer-like around my thoughts to undermine the cure: small consistent steps.

Fifty pounds is too much; five is not enough. Wait until you're ready to do it all. Running five miles is unrealistic; walking a block is useless. Sit down, relax; turn up the TV.

Black. White. Perfect. Awful. Success. Failure.

The world is nuanced with progress happening via minor movements; success gradually coalescing around the actions. One tentative step now, another thereafter - each a deliberate decision, each its own accomplishment.

I know many things

2007-03-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

I have amassed great knowledge on many subjects.

I learned not to run with scissors while attending Botsford Elementary. At UCLA, I was infused with wisdom from the writings of Voltaire and Shakespeare. My time at the College of Hard Knocks has made me woefully aware that not everyone is as he appears.

I can recite the Gettysburg address, or at least the famous sections. My technological skills allow me to understand computers (and because I am snobby in such matters, I prefer Macintosh). I am admittedly unclear as to whether there are six or seven continents as I am unsure whether it's "Europe and Asia," or "Eurasia." Yet, I am knowledgeable enough to realize that on a grand scale, it matters little. Although, being worldly, I am aware that if I were a citizen of Europe and Asia, it would concern me more.

I can say "hello" in five languages - six if Pig Latin is included.

I understand relationships, and how "one attracts more flies with sugar than with vinegar" (although I am unclear why I would wish to attract flies).

My curiosity about other beliefs is unbounded, as I know it is arrogance to assume that my beliefs are the "correct" ones. I have ascertained that those who claim "complete knowledge" obviously do not possess it.

I know to listen intently, not to interrupt, and never, ever, respond to the question, "Does this make my butt look big?" Experience is a cruel instructor.

Because I speak with enthusiasm, have gray hair, wear glasses, and can rub my goatee in a distinguished manner while pondering great thoughts, others seek my knowledge on topics of mind and body. Being wise, I recognize that "pondering" makes one seem more intelligent than "talking."

When questioned, "How do I lose weight?" I pontificate (post pondering), "Eat a little less than you want, walk a little more than you would, wait a moment longer than you think you can. Focus on today. Take small steps."

"Now we know!" they proclaim, overflowing with the joy of understanding and healing, lives now improved from my astute counsel.

Seeking knowledge - and knowing what to do with it - is actually quite simple, especially when instructing others. Putting it into practice on myself is something I still must learn.

Priorities

2007-03-21T22:10:00.000-07:00

If Life is a journey, priorities form the road map.

Priorities are not all alike. For example, there are the trivial; "Honey, let's have potatoes instead of pasta." There are intermediate: "Do we refinance the house to pay for the kids' college?" And then there are enormous, powerful, life-changing ones to light our way and guide us to our final destination.

In philosophical discussions at dinner parties, the question arises, "In order, what are your three most important priorities?"

My well rehearsed reply rolls off my tongue, "Health, Family, Career." I know this because I am enlightened (and have engaged the service of fine therapists). Such topics matter to enlightened people.

I also accept that one might disagree (even I do at times); that misses the point. Rather, the issue here is "The Three" are so critical, I don't even have to think about it. Yet, therein lies a dichotomy: if they are so very important, why not reflect upon them more than I do?

I vocalize, "Health," then eat excessively, evade the doctor, and seek extensive rationale to avoid exercise. If health is my highest priority, I manifest it in an unusual fashion.

Second Priority: "Family." However, when my wife says, "let's play," resistance wells up; I just have so darn much work to do. She - being the loving, supportive partner - gives me permission to enhance Priority Three: Career, and write my overdue speech. I opt instead to use those two hours adjusting the desktop photograph on my computer. After all, who can be productive when the scenery on screen is unattractive?

As a result of my inappropriate time management, Guilt makes its appearance - always a catalyst to eat blindly, medicate away my feelings, and insult my health. Voila, a cycle is complete!

If analyzed by what I do, rather than what I have memorized to impress people, would not my priorities be: "Eating, Procrastination, Guilt"? After all, that is what fills my days.

It's so easy to proclaim out loud what's essential (especially when directing others), yet it's not so effortless to actually follow through.

If health is truly my Priority One, I must act upon it.

I was going to conclude with sage advice on how you could adjust your priorities. But you'll excuse me if I instead put down this donut and take a walk.

What defines "old"?

2007-03-15T12:11:00.000-07:00

Without sound she entered the restaurant. I am unsure whether she actually crossed the door's threshold or simply coalesced like a cloud; her entire being appeared to flow and glide instead of walk. She seemed not to touch the floor, rather floating along a wispy cushion of vapor above the tiles.

Her dress was reminiscent of days when girls with flowers in their hair, and peace signs around their necks, festooned themselves in long flowing, quilted, colorful skirts and off-white, unadorned, peasant tops. Although I did not smell patchouli oil, it would not have been out of character.

Instead of sandals on her feet, she wore cross trainers and wool socks. It would be logical to presume her to be a jogger as she had a healthful, athletic appearance, yet her lithe gait was defined less by hard pounding on pavement, and more by the smooth, poised, balanced, gracefulness of ballet.

The most astonishing aspect of her appearance was her hair; one would expect it to radiate the essence of youth - and it did, sort of. It was silky, elegant, long, velvety - and completely gray. I have gray hair, but in color the comparison ends. I fight to have mine lie neatly upon my scalp; refusing, instead it opts to stand upright like so many fully charged electrical wires. Hers was orderly and smooth, and - as were her movements - fluid.

Even money says she was well north of 70 years, her years on Earth given away only by the lines on her face. Even so, she was without age, timeless. Her complexion still glowed; her smile radiated, her eyes twinkled sharply and bright with spirit.

How then does one define "old"?

All the evidence I needed that age is not on a driver's license nor derived from years on a calendar, was this woman. So many "elders" thrive with spark and vigor well beyond the day that others - much "younger" - have passed from this planet. The rough storm of time batters us all, yet how do so many sail smoothly with the full wind of life until their last moments?

What awaits us?

Like most, I am reticent to find my answer. Yet in her vital, ageless presence, I felt calmed. If I take care of my health and seek peace in the moment, I still feel so new.

Nightly Reflections

2007-03-08T21:25:00.000-08:00

Each night while changing clothes, she purposely faced herself in the mirror - examining each curve, inspecting her shape, turning first left and then right, comparing profiles. It was as intertwined into her nightly routine as deeply as washing her face.

Four-plus decades under gravity's influence leave a discernible legacy. What was firm was now looser, what was thin was now thicker - and it seemed everything was in competition to see what could droop the furthest. Inside, she felt pretty much as she had since girlhood, yet outwardly, her body was being replaced by her mother's.

Of course, this nightly ritual of observation and analysis wasn't logical; after all, another transit of the earth could neither reduce inches nor relax the lines ever more obvious around her eyes. Nonetheless, the little girl inside never completely accepted that the years were here to stay. Maybe today would be different, just maybe...

On the bed, observing, sat her husband; he took that to be his responsibility in this nightly custom.

"You're watching me," she said without turning toward him, feeling his gaze.

"You're gorgeous," came the simple response.

"I don't know how you can say that," she replied, holding in her belly and monitoring her reflection. "I feel so fat."

"I think you get better looking every year. I can't wait until you're 80."

Turning from the mirror to face him, she saw that familiar, loving grin; his eyes still danced each time she met his gaze.

"I wish I saw myself the way you do," she said.

Rising from the bed, he joined her in front of the mirror. "Look at me: gray hair, crow's feet, more wrinkles than you - and these." He pinched the few extra inches of skin encircling his waist. "I could say the same thing. What do you see in me?"

"I love you," she replied. "You look great for 50. You make me laugh. You accept me for who I am."

"Back at you," he said.

In the mirror stood a middle-aged couple - all things considered, doing OK. Youthful days of tight, tan, firm bodies had receded; replaced with the wisdom of years, mutual respect from a good partner, and the friendship and love of a strong relationship. Measured by that light, they were stunning.

She took him by the hand, shut off the light, and left the mirror behind.

Noticing Joy

2007-02-28T15:43:00.000-08:00

It is not possible to feel disheartened when in the presence of an infant's laughter.

Nothing so testifies to the glory and unlimited potential of all the universe's can be as much as the unrestrained, pure, spontaneous belly laugh of a delighted infant. Lacking judgment, shame, and fear, those heart felt giggles cascade unendingly from a baby's mouth, infectiously scattering awe, joy, and an affirmation of Life, giving voice to the jubilant song of the heart.

The first glow of a new romance makes all life fresh again. Elation bathes the soul, skin tingles electrically, and we become excited by each pump of our heart. In those early days, consciousness bursts forth with each morning sun, filling our view with a rich, detailed, and gloriously textured pastiche of our surroundings. What was blank is now a wide-ranging canvas of gleaming colors. Life flows through and around us, creating immunity from the careworn drudgeries of our daily reality.

I am made alive by the bracing scent of a desert autumn's first raindrops as they slip silently and softly through the dry, dusty, balmy sky. As the grime of all that was is cleansed from the atmosphere, and the first splattered drips bury themselves in the sand; I am at one with the essence of Mother Earth. Together, we are rinsed young again, the purifying fragrance infusing us with vigor to face unflinchingly the day.

These are glorious moments - frequently unnoticed.

In spite of that, they are just few of the easy joys of life, woven through the banal activities of daily grocery store excursions, checkbook balancing, and jury duty. Time and again, my existence devolves to a roll call of "to-dos" with no breathing space between items. I lurch zombie-like from waking to night, blinders attached, immune to these relaxed pleasures encircling me.

In those times, I mindlessly seek comfort, reaching for what works quickly, not well: a muffin, bag of chips, a handful of chocolate from my co-worker's desk.

Feed the heartbreak, starve the Soul.

Yet, if I pause for but an instant and look around, I can add to the glorious inventory of pleasures encompassing me each moment, and revel instead in the stronger, affirmative, sensation I receive from self-control, treating well my body, and letting fly my Spirit.

I give up

2007-02-22T21:23:00.000-08:00

This will be my final entry, because between you, me, and the lamppost, I've had it with dieting.

I have reached my limit of getting on the scale - that obsessive, compulsive, weekly monitoring to determine whether I've put on four ounces or lost seven. I can do without the gnawing in the pit of my stomach each time I stand on that double-dealing, lifeless, white platform with the hellish red flashing LED that screams out my weight. Goodbye weigh-in!

I've just had it with counting calories - forever monitoring nutrition labels, analyzing "saturated" versus "trans fat", and tallying sugar grams. Skinny people see the food and eat it. They don't need a science lesson each time they want a muffin. Me neither, case closed.

I am sick and tired of portion control. I've got an entire collection of decrepit orange, older-than-dust, measuring cups in the kitchen drawer. Every time I open the drawer, they get jammed behind the cabinet causing me to shove, push, pull, and yank simply to figure out how many ounces of orange juice I get. The heck with that; I'm gulping down directly from the carton.

Don't even get me started on exercise! Dragging this drowsy old body out of bed and facing a half hour of wheezing and sweating up and down hills in a windy, cold, damp, dark, morning is not my idea of "healthy lifestyle. Turn off the alarm, snuggle up a little closer, and tell me it's Saturday. That's my idea of morning motivation.

Like I said, this "healthy lifestyle" thing is for the birds. It's not worth the effort anymore. Goodbye diet blues.

Oh sure, there's something to be said for the self-esteem and compliments from my friends. The back aches, fear of a heart attack, and darting down side corridors of the mall to avoid someone seeing how much weight I put on are also no longer a part of my itinerary. As for clothes getting too tight or buttons bulging on my shirt, that's in the rearview mirror too. And I do have to admit it is nice to be able to breathe after climbing a flight of stairs or to be able to touch my toes without a written plan...

Sigh...

OK, you win; I'll write one more week. But I am buying new measuring cups.

Healthy travels

2007-02-15T15:27:00.000-08:00

Since the nature of a career of speaking to others about habit changes requires more than a fair amount of time "on the road," it behooves me to master the skill of eating healthy while traveling. Else wise, surviving on the "100% muffin, cookie, and pretzel diet" offered in planes and airports would cause me to gain back my weight - resulting in the loss of my livelihood and taking with it any credibility I might have in writing this column.

As I put pen to paper (more accurately "keyboard to word processor"), I find myself determined finally to be successful in my travel and dieting endeavors.

"Failure to plan," is "planning to fail." Therefore, utilizing all the marvels of the world wide web, I first researched which restaurants near my destination excel in "fit fare cuisine," and printed out maps with walking directions from my hotel to said establishments. By forsaking taxicabs, I am ensuring that I will get the requisite activity level to prevent weight gain.

Furthermore, should my body be a temple, than notice is hereby given that only the pure shall henceforth be allowed passage.

In my overstuffed carry-on suitcase, there is a food diary to record each calorie, taken directly from a booklet containing the nutritional makeup of more than 17,000 foods from five continents. Only those with the appropriate glycemic index shall be chosen.

To quench my thirst, I have opted for the clarifying, clear, cleansing choice of bottled water, rather than sucking down syrupy, sweet, sugary sodas. Instead of the unhealthful indulgence in a vodka martini to relax, I unwind with a delightful kiss of lime added to a refreshingly cold glass of tomato juice spiked with just a hint of Worchester sauce.

As for the omnipresent treats, nary an icing-covered, foil-wrapped, oatmeal cookie has yet crossed my lips. Moreover, those small, individually packaged trail mix bags with delectable chunks of lightly salted cashews, dried pineapple, and apricot bits, have gone untouched. Even the siren-like seductive summons of the tantalizingly crunchy, oh-so-delightful toffee-coated peanuts has fallen upon deaf ears.

I am convinced I've got this traveling thing mastered. Of course, the real test will come when I actually leave my driveway.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author lost 70 pounds over 11 years ago. He has a free motivational e-zine at www.THINspiration.com. His book, THE SHADE OF TREE IS THE VERY BEST SHADE THERE IS, is available at www.ShadeOfATree.com. He can be reached for presentations or comments at 707.442.6243 or scottq@THINspiration.com.

Stamina over speed

2007-01-31T17:16:00.000-08:00

Last in a special series on the mental and emotional adjustments required for long-term change.

Anyone could tell she was annoyed with the result. Although she lost weight from the previous week, her irritation was palpable.

"One quarter of a pound? Four lousy ounces!" She continued to stare at the scale. "I exercised. I wrote everything down; I even stayed away from the hors d'oeuvres at the office party. This is too slow. I won't hit my right weight until I'm 60!"

Standing down from the platform, I heard her grumble as she snatched her purse, "Who needs this frustration?" With those final words, she stormed from the meeting. The next time she came to a meeting, she weighed 43 pounds more than when she had left - and was three years closer to the "dreaded" age of sixty.

At times it is difficult to remember that "slower is faster than never."

Few events are more exasperating than diligently following a plan, faithfully monitoring your efforts, expecting breathtaking rewards, and ending up feeling punished for the effort. Hope vanishes, motivation evaporates, and the seductive siren song of harmful habits slyly lures us off track. After all, rarely does one give up when all is doing well.

Success requires enduring many such indignities; it involves making a lifestyle - not temporary - change. Logically, we know that "lifestyle change" must last... well, er, um ... a lifetime (hence the term). Emotionally however, we want to experience all the payback without making the required investment. As a further analogy, we crave the benefits of wisdom without enduring the exposure to life.

It does not work that way. The process will not be rushed; it must be fully experienced.

Success is more likely when we understand the benefits begin immediately; we do not have to wait to enjoy them until we get "there." To the contrary, that magical land where temptation is non-existent and motivation is ever present is fantasy; there is no better prescription for failure than betting the farm on such unrealistic expectations.

Those who obtain their goals are still faced with the same temptations and frustrations as those of us still striving for our objectives. What differs is they persevere through rough periods by changing focus, not by ignoring the delay.

Setbacks cannot be avoided. Although it might not feel so in the moment, each one presents an opportunity to understand the process, ourselves, and make the adjustments necessary for long-term, SUSTAINED change.

At those crossroads, look back, not ahead. The future is always unknown, yet the road already traveled - no matter how short the journey - is lined with accomplishments: some small, others more significant.

Motivation returns when the focus changes.

NOTE: Next, we're back to the usual variety of rants, musings, and insights (such as they are) of weight loss, habit change, and other acts of faith.

Believe it

2007-01-28T20:41:00.000-08:00

Next in a series on the mental and emotional adjustments required for long-term change

The famous early-twentieth century escape artist, Harry Houdini, traveled the countryside, locking himself in jails, only to escape, as a method of furthering his reputation (and increasing his audiences). As the story goes, there was only one chamber from which he could not free himself.

Houdini entered the fateful cell and began his usual routine once the iron bars clanged shut. From his belt, he removed a concealed piece of metal utilized to pick locks, and set about as he had done countless times before. Whereby every previous security device had soon swung open, he could not achieve the desired results on this occasion.

Finally, after laboring for hours, bathed in sweat and exhausted, Houdini collapsed in frustration against the cell door, defeated. As he fell against it, it swung wide - it was unlocked the entire time.

Because Houdini believed he was trapped, he was. So too are we ensnared by our beliefs.
If I do not believe I can lose "those extra pounds," all the forces of Heaven and Earth cannot force success upon me. It matters not the number of "experts" and self-help gurus who ply me with easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions, exercise plans, or medical research.

As example, if after losing 12 pounds, I have a temporary setback of two pounds, I will see that as validation of what I already "knew": that I cannot lose weight.

"It was only a matter of time," I'll say to myself. "I knew it couldn't last."

Beliefs influence feelings; therefore defeated and despondent, I think, "Why am I wasting my time?" From thoughts come actions; in this case that would be getting off the scale, tossing my diet materials in the trash, and deciding to give up for now. I revert to old habits. My losses evaporate, my bulks returns.

The final consequence is my beliefs are again validated and the cycle resumes.

The reality about weight loss is that it is not a linear downward progression, even for the ultra dedicated and diligent. Rather, it is a learned skill, trial and error. Successful weight loss is actually losing more weight than one gains; down four pounds, up one, down three, up two. (Picture a stock market chart from a downward Bear market and you get an accurate concept.)

If my belief is that periodic gains are part of the process, I will still feel frustrated and saddened by the setback, but shall continue the course, possibly making some corrections. Two pounds are two pounds; resulting actions differ only because underlying beliefs do.

What we say to ourselves become our beliefs; if they work, they are of value to us. If not, it is vital we change them.

Believe me.

Shrinking it down

2007-01-17T15:30:00.000-08:00

Next in a series on the mental and emotional adjustments required for long-term change

I believe in the basic goodness of people.

Because of that, my feelings towards most are benevolent; I cut people some slack, assist the downtrodden when possible, and experience a general contentedness with life. The result is, on the whole, people treat me well and I feel fortunate. (Although I periodically forget, so you might need to remind me.)

Because I believe, I act. Actions cause results, which feed into - or work against - my beliefs. In that process is another of the great circles of life.

Beliefs are the bedrock of who we are - and who we become. To a large extent, they determine whether we live well, the quality of our relationships, and even our connection with God and the Universe. Powerful forces, they are not to be reckoned with lightly.

Beliefs: closely held values accepted as facts and validated by observation, are the essential component in lifestyle change. It is hard to look in the mirror while weighing 250 pounds and have faith that "this time" I will be successful, when in fact, all previous attempts merely ended as failure, leaving me weighing more now than I ever have previously. If I do not believe, it matters not how many experts tell me to eat less and be more active. In my mind, I know I will not succeed and will therefore see failure, not setbacks; defeat, not delay. I will quit.

I was not born believing that I would always be fat; that took time to develop. As a child, my parents, concerned about my size, stressed its dangers. Doctors put me on thousand-calorie diets with purple-ink mimeographs and lists of low calorie foods. My clothes came from the "husky" section. Boys teased me; girls avoided me. Each time I was impeded in my diet, internal voices screeched, "See, you can't change; it's impossible!" I stopped, further validating my beliefs.

Beliefs can and do change. What's counterintuitive is that process happens not by thinking big, but small. One's life is not constructed in years, rather via minutes and seconds. Small, almost unperceivable ticks of the clock come together to make me who I am, leaving behind who I was. It is almost imperceptibly slow, but is happening - even now.

When I no longer looked at 70 pounds - or even ten - as the validation of success, changes began. Instead of the "whole thing," I targeted five pounds, or three, sometimes even one. At times, success was getting through the next five minutes.

Each slight triumph - if focused upon - became an in-your-face defiance of the old guard, knocking down its structure, brick-by-brick, girder by ledger.

To adjust beliefs, concentrate on minor victories. They will get larger when given their due.

Whadya Want?

2007-01-11T10:20:00.000-08:00

Part of a series on the mental and emotional adjustments required for long-term change

"People don't buy what they need, they buy what they want," so goes the age-old idiom used by sales trainers.

Some explanation is in order:

"Buy" is not merely an exchange of currency for a product; "buy" can also be "make a decision" as in "buy into an idea." From such "mental purchases," actions result.
We are not irrational; although "buying" begins emotionally, we back it with logic before finalizing the deal.

In other words, I might really, really, really want a bright red sporty convertible (can you say "mid life crisis?") but I then analyze my finances, examine my needs, and decide not to buy. However, if I don't "want" it first, I will not even weigh the options, so no purchase is possible.

Again: We buy what we want more than what we need; we back it with logic.

More germane to resolutions and habit change, I NEEDED to lose weight for years, yet it wasn't until my 39th birthday when I found myself eating leftover frosting from the pink cake box I had placed in the garbage, that I decided to actually do something.

Moreover, it was not that I even wanted to lose weight; in that moment all I wanted was to stop despising myself. I wanted control. I wanted to feel better. At that instant, I would do virtually anything to make the pain stop. Born from that strong emotional state, I only then analyzed my options and alternatives - and moved forward.

Change is generated by fear, force, or pain - not happiness. If life were idyllic with butterflies, flowers, and sunshine greeting each morning, why would anyone want to change? However, from the fire of ache, desires arise; the paradox being that once that hurt starts to recede (or the reality of the effort sets in) I no longer WANT to do the work as it appears laborious, tedious, and non-productive. I revert to familiar easier habits, figuring "there's always tomorrow." Therein lies the seed of every broken resolution.

To break that cycle, one must focus on what is GAINED from the effort, not what is sacrificed. Weight loss is NOT about abandoning favorite foods; it's about feeling in control. It is NOT about grunting and panting through an exercise program, it's about enjoying freedom of movement. Each is true, one we WANT - and move toward it; the other we don't - we steer away.

To make change permanent, it is imperative that we focus on its benefits. It's still a long road but a more productive, positive, and exciting path.

7 Minutes on Motivation

2007-01-05T19:43:00.000-08:00

Click here to hear a radio interview with Scott "Q" Marcus on how one begins to change habits. (You might need to right click.) It's an mp3, about 3.5 megabytes.

Feel free to pass along to others. Just give credit to Scott "Q" please.

Thoughtful beginnings

2007-01-03T21:00:00.000-08:00

If you were awake at 12:01AM January 2nd, you heard it. That giant CLUNK was the sound of the national psyche slamming over from "How much can I eat?" to "How quickly can I lose weight?" It happens every year at this time. Equally without fail is the inundation of advertisements, TV programs - and yes, columnists - who provide astute coaching on how to lose "those extra pounds" and get in shape. Warmed-over, threadbare, time-and-again guidance is ladled out in generous proportion each January, as reliably as winter rains. Chefs explain lower-fat meal preparation. Size zero models adorned in $500 leotards and $2000 running shoes champion their personal workout plans. Equally ubiquitous, snake oil infomercials attempt to pry consumer from wallet with assurances of medication and machines that "melt weight off without effort."

Been there, heard that. Over and over and over and over again...

I still weighed 250 pounds.

We know how to lose weight (eat less, be more active); it need not be belabored ad nausea. What blocks our progress is we just plain don't want to do it!

Yes, we desire good health. Yes, we like it when we look attractive. No, we are not fond of the stuffed-to-the-gills-can't-budge gastric distress following a binge of belly-busting burgers dripping with cheese and wrapped in pigful of bacon. The hitch in the get-along is that dieting takes forever; requires excessive, unending, Herculean, effort; and feels like it never succeeds. Why embark upon a laborious, frustrating voyage with defeat at its termination?

As said in college, "Flunk now, avoid the June rush."

When I started these weekly missives a few years back, I promised myself, the editors - and most important: YOU - that I would not dwell on "carbs, calories, and calisthenics;" that's everywhere already and we're not listening. Yes, nutrition and activity are essential to success, but what is lacking in the public dialogue is a conversation about the feelings, beliefs, and thoughts required for change.

We are not "food zombies," in control one moment, consuming uncountable calories the next, without some intervening thought process. In that illogical flash, I consider alternatives, rise from the couch, head to the kitchen, figure out what foods will comfort me - and only THEN do I drain the cabinets. I KNOW it's not healthy but this is not about smart, this is about feelings.

For the next few weeks, I'm doing a series: What goes into the heart and brain before whatever goes down the mouth and stomach. I.e. why do we do what we do when we know we won't like ourselves later? Whether you're trying to lose weight, stop smoking, or just change your attitude, I hope you enjoy.

Besides, at least for the time it takes to read 500 words, you won't be eating. And that's as good a start as any.

The Resolution

2006-12-27T16:52:00.000-08:00

"I resolve this will be my healthiest year ever!"

"Great! How are you doing that?"

"I start at 4:30 each morning. I bought one of those way-cool Zen clocks to gently ease me awake. Then I meditate for 30 minutes. I don't eat unconsciously if I start my day centered and balanced."

"I hear you. No one likes a crooked diet."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No, just playing; I admire your dedication. What's next?"

"Exercise. I bought top-of-the-line brand name running clothes - $175 for the shoes alone. I also plunked down cash for micro-fiber rainproof pants, a fleece pullover, and pedometer. You should see it; it counts steps, distance, even calories. So, I do a rigorous warm up followed by a three-mile run and power walk, and end with a cool-down stretch. I have DVDs and a CD to guide me."

"Wow, I'm exhausted just listening."

"There's more. After an aromatherapy shower using four all-natural astringents and a limited design anti-cellulite luffa, I plan meals. I purchased an entire collection of healthy-eating cookbooks, and subscribe to an on-line service that each day provides a new prepare-from-scratch, all-organic recipe tailored to my personal history - which I mix and cook in specially treated cookware."

"Specially treated? How's that?"

"I'm a little fuzzy on the details. But the infomercial said they have 'an exclusive adipose reduction coating that the diet companies don't want us to know about.' They wouldn't lie in their own ads, would they?"

"Heaven forbid! No!"

"Success involves conscious thought. So I write things down. I got a journal for my thoughts and feelings, another for logging exercise, and a third to record calories, fat, fiber, portion sizes, and of course, my weight and measurements."

"Let me guess; you bought a scale too."

"State-of-the-art all-electronic! It monitors weight, body fat - even tracks my progress. I also subscribe to a personal coaching service. Every day, I read my affirmation, then email my reaction to my success coach for support."

"What does he do with it?"

"Nothing. But, you know, just knowing I'm being held accountable helps. I also see a personal trainer, nutritionist, and therapist."

"You are really motivated. What can I do to help?"

"Talk me out of this. I'm hungry, I'm exhausted, and I'm going broke."