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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Trying Times

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.

I believe

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.

I am not

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.

Walking the walk

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).

Difficult Until it Isn't

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

1. Eat a little less than you want
2. Wait five minutes before you start
3. Walk a little more than you would
4. Focus on today (tomorrow will take care of itself)
5. 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

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...

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.

Past my twenties

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.

I'm proud of you

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.

Now Boarding

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.

Paradoxes

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

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 Perfect Gift

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.

In two years

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.

Savoring the Moment

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.

Amazing!

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.

Think about it

"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."