Birthdays Can Be a Pain, But Spring Is in the Air

When I woke up on my 35th birthday I was more than a little distressed to experience pain in my right hip, a pain I had never felt before. The pain vanished the next day. Being no stranger to pain of unknown origin, and being a hypochondriac of some repute as defined by friends and family, I took my temporary condition in stride. The pain in my hip has not returned.

Now, 31 years to the day later, I awoke last Friday not with pain in my hip but with a sharp pain in my lower right back, along the waistline, a pain I have suffered through before but not lately. Gilda has told me it’s arthritis, that stretching exercises would ameliorate much of the agony. Do I listen to her? Not exactly. 

It’s not that I’m a glutton for pain. It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s just … I’m lazy. I hate exercising, and I suffer the consequences. The pain has persisted over the weekend, with occasional respite. 

I wasn’t the only object feeling my age Friday. Reluctantly, I finally had to jettison the Macbook I received when working on Chain Store Age and purchased when I retired. Seems a mid-2007 operating system, even upgraded to the maximum, isn’t compatible with today's real and future tech world. 

Reality came crashing down on me when I tried to load a disk of TurboTax. My upgraded system reached its limit at OS X. v10.6.8. TurboTax required at least 10.7.5. So my birthday present to myself was a new MacBook Air. Of course, the MacBook Air doesn’t have a disk slot, so I have to buy a stand alone disk drive, but isn’t that par for the course, any time you change hardware? You’re always forced to buy more than you expected.

I’m getting used to the new laptop but one major problem is I can’t seem to connect it to the HP printer. This is why I dislike new technologies. There’s always something that doesn’t work right. I’m not a happy camper.

Spring Is in the Air: Take heart all who have had enough of winter. The first harbingers of spring have appeared. No, I am not referring to red-breasted robins. Rather, I have spotted and quickly disposed of two silver fish, no doubt on separate expeditionary missions for their subterranean colony. It is just a matter of time, and melting snow, before we see lawns again.

As for melting snow, it is dropping in chunks from our highest roof to the level below. 

In case you’re wondering, we still haven’t gone live with solar panel electricity. The city has approved the installation. We’re waiting for ConEd to sign off to flip the switch.

In case you’re further wondering, when it snows the panels get covered just like ordinary roof shingle. Light snow doesn’t impact production but heavy accumulations probably will. But snow clears away from the panels sooner and tends to clean the panels, making them more efficient. Also, snow on the ground reflects sunlight, giving them more solar exposure. 

Of course, that’s all conjecture and prayer. I can’t wait to go live and find out (though I’d be content to wait until next winter to test the snow thesis).

Health Notes

Gilda’s far more well-read than I. She absorbs books, magazines, newspapers and Web sites at a prodigious rate. She finds way more articles than I do to pass on to her mate, especially ones on exercise, diet and health. I’m forever fed a full plate of ways to improve myself—less red meat, more exercise, more fruits and vegetables, more exercise, fewer sweets, even those with sugar-substitutes, more exercise. 

Naturally, I relish the few instances when I can defend my almost indefensible (prone) position of non-activity. Two months ago I forwarded to her an article from the NY Times on a study of how statins can cause muscle aches and fatigue. The Times said the effects may be especially pronounced in people who exercise. As I take Simvastatin to reduce my cholesterol level, I found comfort in the study. Of course, the study subjects were rats, but I’ve been called worse, so I identified with the results. 

Today, The Times front-paged more anti-exercise ammunition. “For Some, Exercise May Increase Heart Risks, Researchers Find,” screamed the headline (http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/05/30/can-exercise-be-bad-for-you/?ref=health). The article suggested 10% of the population may fall under this risk classification. Not that I’m desirous of being susceptible to increased heart risk, but there’s no reason to tempt the Fates by openly inviting their wrath through exercise. Naturally, I sent the article along to Gilda. 

Another Times article today discussed the reluctance of patients to talk about their conditions with their physicians (http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/). I generally don’t have that problem. Indeed, Gilda tells me I am too loquacious, providing extraneous data, at least in her view as a medical professional (a nurse practitioner). Could be I’m camouflaging my anxiety by talking too much. 

Anyway, my next annual physical is tomorrow. My blood work is generally good—cholesterol down to 165; HDL 41, LDL 79. Triglycerides, while still above normal, are 31% lower than six months ago. Still have to work to reduce my blood sugar levels, though. 

Here’s a headline from today I really like: “Murray Fights Through the Pain to Advance.” It’s over an article about Andy Murray advancing to the third round of the French Open despite back and leg ailments. As anyone who has played ball with me knows, I’m always complaining about sore knees, sore Achilles tendons and lower back pain. I play through it all, as well, though I don’t always win. By the way, in games I have pitched in so far this year, including a nine-inning stint a week ago, our softball team is 2-1 (overall, 2-2). 

It’s been months since I tried to see a free movie on a Tuesday. But with a new flick out titled “Bernie,” my brother’s name, I was compelled to try the other day. I arrived half an hour before the 4:10 pm showing, but the film, starring Shirley MacLaine and Jack Black, was sold out. “Sold out” is really a euphemism for senior citizens and the unemployed taking advantage of free film cards they get as part of our cable company triple-play package. “Bernie” is about a mortician who befriends a wealthy, nasty old lady in Texas who he eventually kills and stuffs into a freezer on her property. It’s based on a true story. I’m hoping it will be at least as entertaining as “Weekend at Bernie’s.” 

Speaking of my brother, he and wife Annette just returned from Vietnam, a side trip from a visit to Hong Kong. My sister Lee and husband David toured Vietnam two years ago when their son Jonathan was working in Singapore. I’m a little envious of these trips. Now, that is. I could easily have preceded them to Vietnam 40 years ago had I passed my draft physical. As I previously wrote, I flunked my physical by being underweight, the first time in my life I ever was proud of my physique. 

Here’s another sign the NY Yankees of 2012 are a shell of their former selves. Despite a recent power shortage, particularly with the bases loaded (they’re 0 for their last 17), the Yankees really need more starting pitching, given the inconsistencies of Phil Hughes and Hiroki Kuroda plus the season-ending injury to Michael Pineda. Yet, the George Steinbrenner-less Yankees did not, or could not, convince Roy Oswalt to join their staff. Oswalt signed a reported $5 million, one-year deal with the Texas Rangers, more validation that the mantle of baseball dynasty, at least in the American League, has been transferred to the Rangers, league champions the last two years. 

True, the free-agent Oswalt is coming off an injury-plagued 2011, but there is little doubt he would be at least as effective as Hughes or Kuroda. It’s painful to watch the Yankees slip into mediocrity, at best, insignificance, at worst. I never thought I’d miss George. 

It’s enough to drive a fan to drink. But in New York City, if Mayor Michael Bloomberg has his way, you’ll be restricted in the size of sugary soft drinks you can purchase in a restaurant, deli or sports arena—no more than 16 ounces of pap per serving. It’s a health issue, part of Bloomberg’s continuous war on obesity and its causes. 

It’s disingenuous to argue sugared soft drink consumption doesn’t contribute to added weight and possibly to adult onset diabetes. Bloomberg’s opponents would argue he is dictating how people may live their lives, that he’s usurping (or is it un-syruping) their rights. Yet it is also indisputable the rising cost of health care for the obese and diabetic is a silent tax on everyone, that it is in the public interest to control consumption of products that destroy lives and cost the taxpayer to medicate. It’s just like efforts to fight tobacco use, or trans fats in restaurant food.

Now, as a long-time Coca-Cola drinker—the real stuff, not diet—until about 20 years ago, I can tell you some people do not gain weight from it. I wouldn’t have flunked that draft physical if Coke had packed pounds onto my frame. But Coke did play a part in elevating my blood sugar levels. 

I’m not thrilled the public and businesses would have some of their rights curtailed. But I am supportive of a government policy that aims to improve the quality of life for everyone, even if they don’t realize it’s in their best interests. 

Delaying the Inevitable

To what lengths would you go to delay doing your taxes?

For me, it meant engaging in two of my less desirable activities—exercising and outdoor home maintenance.

Today’s warm weather—it’s still 71 degrees outside as I write this at 4:30 pm—beckoned me away from any thoughts of firing up Turbo Tax to complete my filing. So at 2:30 I laced on my sneakers, hauled out my Heavyhands, and power-walked around our neighborhood for 40 minutes. When I returned I noticed the area of our brick walkway near the front porch was rather slick. Because it doesn’t get sufficient sunshine, it gets infested with a mildewy moss.

Ah, goodie, another reason not to do my taxes. I hooked up the power washer and prepared to blast the mildew away. Prepared is the right word, for you just can’t stand there and hose down the crud, unless you don’t care about getting wet. I do, so I exchanged my jeans for a pair of waterproof pants, my sneakers for a pair of waterproof boots. Appropriately attired, I washed away for about 20 minutes.

The only problem is once you start a home maintenance project there’s always another task to be done. For example, when I went outside to check the thermometer on the porch a few minutes ago to provide an accurate reading, I noticed the power washing of the walkway sprayed dirt onto the storm door. Yes, I could have left the shmutz there for another day, but there’s no way Gilda would not have royally reprimanded me for being lazy.

This early spring weather is taxing my resolve to live up to the no socks credo of this blog. I actually hate not wearing socks, but you can’t imagine how many people ask me if I’m wearing socks when they see me. You’ll be happy to know I’m sans socks as I write this. I’m even sans shoes—Gilda is enthusiastic about a new discipline that promotes shoeless feet whenever possible. When she reads this blog I’m sure to score at least four points with her for exercising, powerwashing, cleaning up and walking around without shoes. Now, if I could only earn some points with the IRS...

No Sand in My Face

Jack LaLanne’s death at 96 is as good an occasion as any to take stock of my physical inventory and history.

I was a 98-lb. weakling. I didn’t get sand kicked in my face for the simple reason I stayed away from the beach because I was ashamed of my thin body. To this day I contend I never learned to swim, despite 14 years of summer camp, because I was embarrassed to be in a bathing suit. You could have played my visible ribs like a xylophone.

I’m still a skinny malink, at least in my own mind—I weigh just under 174 pounds narrowly sheathed over a six-foot frame. Muscles? Ha!

As a youngster, I saw all those Charles Atlas ads in the back of comic books. They had no effect on me. Neither did the raw egg-packed milk shakes my sister prepared for me as a youth. My parents threatened to send me to a reverse fat farm instead of normal summer camp, a place where they would stuff me with enough food to bulk me up. My mother said my lousy eating habits propelled her back to full-time work in my father’s business.

But I got the last laugh. I’m your faithful correspondent these days because I beat the military draft in 1970, the height of the Vietnam War. I beat the draft because I was underweight!

When my draft notice came, I took defensive action. The military has a height/weight standard. Minimum weight for six feet is 131 pounds. As I then weighed 134, I had 10 days to lose enough “fat” to get under the minimum. I immediately started the Stillman Water Diet, eating only proteins and drinking 80 ounces of water a day. No carbs, no fruit, no vegetables, just meat, fish, eggs and water.

My mother did a 180—instead of kvetching I was eating too little, she wondered if I was eating too much.

The fateful day at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, I tipped the scales at 124. Low enough with sufficient cushion (pun intended) in case they kept me for three days of observation and stick-to-the-ribs army food. Not to worry. I was 1-Y deferred for a year, never to be called back for another physical.

Over the ensuing 40 years I’ve added 50 pounds but despite being athletically minded I can’t get my body to tone up any muscle. Every so often I initiated a workout regimen, but I quickly lost motivation and commitment.

Gilda religiously goes to the gym. I’ve joined gyms at work and at home, but after an initial flurry of activity—preceded, I might add, by buying more than enough gym shorts and workout shirts to clothe a platoon of Arnold Schwarzeneggers—I lost interest. I think it’s that old body-shame thing, minus the water. Gilda tells me it’s all in my head, that no one is looking at me, that they’re all into their exercise routines. But if I’m looking at them, how could they not be looking at me?

Same thing applies these days to going to the beach, one of Gilda’s favorite excursions. Aside from not enjoying sitting under a broiling sun, I’m very self-conscious about my shape. The beach, after all, is a place people go to see and be seen. It is just not my scene.

It’s funny. When I played a team sport, I had no issue stripping down to the bare essentials. All the time I resisted swimming instruction during camp, I’d be playing basketball, soccer, volleyball, softball in shorts, often with no shirt on. No one ever made fun of my physique. When I pitched in a softball league for 25 years until two years ago, I wore shorts while other players wore pants. The opposing squad, even my own teammates, poked fun at my “chicken legs.” I teased back if they were distracting the batter it was to my advantage.

For all his dedication to creating muscles, Jack LaLanne said he disliked workouts. I couldn’t agree more.