Count the Cost BEFORE - Not After

Math. I was always good at it. There was even a time when I thought I should be an accountant - until I discovered what a dull life that would be.

I like numbers. Always have. They're like a story unto themselves. Two people can take the same numbers and come up with completely opposite conclusions. Don't believe me? Try listening to economists, politicians, and pollsters.

So much of life can be reduced to numbers and equations. I used to get into that kind of stuff, but then I found my mind isn't quite so beautiful after all. Deluded. Just not beautiful.

I prefer simple math to the complex equations. Perhaps because I prefer a simple life to one more complex. It's not that I don't care. It's more like wondering if it's all really worth the effort. Not sure it always is. Some things are. Most definitely. Not always easy to identify, though.

I've always prided myself on my ability to do basic arithmetic. Not much to be proud of, I know, but we all have to be good at something. It's frightening how many people can't do simple math. When I was in high school I took bookkeeping. (I think I've told this story before. If I have, please bear with me. I'm old.) There were four of us who led the way in the "practice set" - two quarters in which we pretended to be the bookkeeper for a small company. None of the four of us used the adding machines (pre-calculator days, folks). Then, one by one, members of our foursome became "tainted" with the machine. As that happened, the "sinner" would invariably fall behind - never to catch up. In the end there was just me. I never used them, and I finished a week ahead of second place. Not only that, but out of nearly two hundred students, I had the only perfect paper.

What a drag. To have achieved my fifteen minutes of fame at the age of seventeen doing a practice set for bookkeeping class. It's been all downhill since then, folks. Sigh.

So, with all of this brilliance in my head regarding numbers one would think I could so some basic arithmetic and save myself a headache. No. No such luck.

I could have done the addition, to be sure. I just didn't. So what was the arithmetic? Here is a small table of numbers. There are three columns. Five rows. For each row, multiply column A by column C. Then multiply column B by column C. Then total the results. What do the numbers represent? I will tell you after the math.

040.....1.0 .....06 .....240 ..... 06.0
060.....1.0 .....08 .....480 ..... 08.0
100.....1.5 ..... 12 ..1,200 .... .18.0
080.....4.0 .....02 .....160 ..... 08.0
035 ... 1.5 ..... 20 ....700 ... ..30.0
===..=== ..=== .==== .. ====
315 .....9.0 ... 48 ..2,780 .... .70.0

Now, the numbers which ultimately matter in this little exercise are the totals for the two rightmost columns: 2,780 and 70.0. What do they represent? Can you guess?

Well, I am on a supposedly serious quest to lose more than 100 pounds in less than two years. Been doing all right. Sometimes it's been hard, and other times it's been harder. The numbers above represent what happened yesterday.

I was hungry.

However, not wishing to be "bad" about my weight, I found some very low calorie, low fat items. The first column represents the number of calories PER SERVING of each of the five things I ate from noon until nine at night. The second column represents the amount of fat (in grams) PER SERVING. The third column is the number of servings in the package.

By multiplying the number of servings by the calories and fat, one gets the total amount of calories and fat for the ENTIRE PACKAGE. My diabetes doctor has told me that I should NOT be eating more than 2,000 calories in any day for any reason. A person my size (6'6") should have at least 20 grams of fat each day, but NEVER more than 40 or 50.

Note the totals: 2,780 and 70.0.

Can you guess how much of the contents of those five packages I ate yesterday afternoon and evening? Yep. I ate them all. Forty-eight servings of low-fat food. Wasn't I being good?

It was like Homer Simpson with his little wafer crackers. His daughter, Lisa, told him they were only 40 calories. Then he piled every kind of meat and cheese between two, ate them with relish, and congratulated himself for only taking in 40 calories.

Also kind of like this variety show from the 1970s I saw. This monster of a man stood before the audience extolling the wonders of weight watcher foods. He mentioned a tiny weight watcher pizza. "They're great! I had six of 'em for lunch."

The diabetes doctor told me I could have even "fatty" snacks - except for one thing: his read on me was that I had no willpower to stop once I started. Doctor reads pretty good. That's what doctors get paid the big bucks for. What do I get paid? Nothing in gold, silver, or spendable currency.

I get guilt. I know how to add. Now I have to do some more subtracting.

Sigh.

New Weight Watch Page

UPDATED on May 31: Made my month goal.

UPDATED on May 27: Filled in some missing data. Made my May goal and am now aiming for an extension.

I have a New Watch Page for the month of May. If you care to compare, here's a link to the Old Watch Page from April.

Entering May, I have lost six pounds in four weeks. I know that doesn't sound like anything to brag about, but I saw my heart doctor this week and he said he was happier with my six than he would have been with sixteen. He wants me to lose one or two pounds each week - and no more. Slow weight change means I'm changing the way I live. Fast weight change means I'm starving myself. That can't be maintained.

My Name is Nobody

Do not confuse my title with the 1973 movie of the same name starring Terrence Hill. If you're curious about it, here's the link. As movies go, it was all right.

No. What I am referring to is that I believe I have discovered my real name. Turns out I was really adopted after all. I had asked my Mother about it, trying to be clever, so as not to reveal my suspicions.

Mom, which of your children did you adopt?

What are you talking about? I adopted Nobody!

Nobody? Hmm.

Later, as I was growing up and would get together with other kids trying to decide what to do, I would offer suggestions.

Let's play baseball!

Aw! Nobody wants to play baseball.

Nobody? Hmm.

When teachers would (rarely) give the class a choice on something, such as which book to have read during story time.

Okay, Class. I have two books. One is Sea Pup, by Archie Binns. The other is Dull and Stupid, by Hecant Write. Now, who wants Sea Pup? (I would raise my hand) Nobody. Okay, we'll do Dull and Stupid.

When I left home and would go grocery shopping I learned that major decisions about products were being made based on my buying habits.

There used to be this wonderful spaghetti I would buy. It was quite long. So long, in fact, that it had to be bent in an incredibly long "U" shape. I loved it, despite the requirement of a large kettle in order to cook it. It came in five pound boxes and I would buy at least one box every month. Then, Cub Foods quit selling it. Desire overcame fear and I actually asked an employee about it. They didn't know anything. So I did what was for me unthinkable: I contacted the manufacturer. I was told they didn't make it anymore. Turns out, they discovered Nobody wanted it.

Nobody again. Hmm.

Same thing happened with Cream of Shrimp soup. Cub quit selling that, too. Having dared ask once, I asked again. This time I was shown to a manager who explained that Cub just couldn't afford to stock merchandise that Nobody wanted.

Still with the Nobody.

My son was laughing at me yesterday. (Why should Monday be different than the other days of the week?) I forget exactly what we were talking about, but then he pointed out that every time I start to really like something, whoever is responsible for making it - stops. My favorite television shows? Off the air because Nobody watched them. My favorite foods? No longer sold because Nobody bought them. My favorite pastimes? Others don't wish to participate because Nobody wants to do that.

Now I understand why President Obama is getting all this heat lately. Someone let it slip that Nobody voted for him.

It's just a matter of time before all visits to my blogs stop because people learn that Nobody wants to view these blogs. In fact, Nobody writes them!

Had I known all of this earlier I would have supported the Bush-Chaney ticket and spared the world a lot of grief.

The Tortoise and the Hares

So I got the bicycle and have been riding. Put in eleven miles and seventy-five minutes yesterday. Paying for it today. Not feeling well at all. Will probably stay off the bike (probably not) and just do treadmill today.

Getting sick from riding too much reminded me of the one and only bike-a-thon I was part of. Did that back in the mid-70s. When I was nineteen or twenty.

It was Randy's idea to participate. He invited Stephen, who invited me. We met some others, including a co-worker of mine at the pizza shop, at the starting point and took off as a group of six or seven. Randy was in training. He wanted to do the 100-mile Ironman later that summer. This particular ride was fifty miles. For charity. You got people to pledge so much a mile. I didn't get many pledges. Asking people for anything is difficult for me, but asking them for money is a nightmare. So I would just make it known I was involved and let them offer to pledge. Think I got ten or fifteen dollars for the thing.

Anyway, being young and feeling "macho", we got into a competition before we even started. The deal was, who could go the longest before they had to get off their bike and walk, or just plain stop and take a rest? There were allowances. For instance, there were about a half dozen checkpoints for the bikers. These would typically be at fast-food restaurants or convenience store filling stations. Getting off one's bike to purchase food or drink, or to use the facilities didn't count. But between checkpoints did.

We started out together and reached the first checkpoint as a group. Same with the second. That was where we got food and drink. I avoided the food and went only with the drink. Didn't want to get sick.

On the third leg we began to spread out. And all but three of us got off their bikes to walk up the nightmare hill. I felt like I was biking straight up into the air. I had a Raleigh bike with ten speeds. Stephen's bike was even better. (I had got my Raleigh from Stephen. Traded a Chevy Vega for it. I got the best part of the deal.) I made it to the top without stopping going on sheer willpower and pride. You see, Stephen didn't stop either. Neither did my co-worker. Silly macho pride kept us going. After that hill I was convinced I would do not worse than tie for the longest ride.

After the final checkpoint we had several uninteresting miles to cover in order to finish. We had begun early in the morning and now it was late afternoon. I was wiped. The furthest I had ever biked in a single day before was maybe thirty miles. Randy, who was hoping to bike 100-miles in just a couple of months had to take several rests. So did nearly everyone else. Even my co-worker finally looked at me and gave up, conceding my willpower over his. That left just Stephen and me. I knew we would finish together.

Except by now we were spreading out into a long line separated by huge gaps. I had been in the middle or near the front all day, but I had fallen behind. Stephen decided he would rather finish first and I told him to go ahead and he was soon out of sight, too. I plodded.

Then, I passed my co-worker. He was laying on the ground beside his bicycle taking a nap. One by one I passed the others, including Randy. I planned on telling Stephen about it, but then I found Stephen laying beside the road, too. I had won.

Now I could have got off right then and taken a rest, but for whatever reason I decided I wouldn't. It was only five miles to finish and I was going to make it without stopping. I plodded.

Then Stephen passed me. Looking fresh. Not long after that Randy passed me. One-by-one they all did. My co-worker passed me with two miles to go.

I came into the last stretch ready to fall over and die. I had forgotten what things were like at the end. When we began it was fun. A long ride down a hill. Now it was reversed. A horrendous climb which lasted nearly a half mile. And it was sandy.

It was so tempting to give up at the end. Why is that? When the end was twenty, ten, or even five miles away I was determined to finish. Now, with the finish line in my sights, I wanted to give up and quit. Why?

I would have quit, too - except for Stephen, Randy, and the others. I saw them. They were standing at the finishing line cheering me on as though it were some big deal. I struggled with finding a suitable gear to climb a sandy hill but made it. I didn't stop until I was sure I had put the finish line behind me. I finished a half hour behind the one in front of me. But I had done something none of them had: never stopped.

I had to work that night. So did my co-worker. He lived three miles from work. I was more like fifteen. Stephen brought me home and I got dressed and hurried to the pizza place. I was late by an hour. When I got there the owner was there. He was not happy. What surprised me was that my co-worker was not there. The owner followed me to the back where I punched in and took an apron.

"You're late!" (as if I hadn't figured that out on my own)

"I know. It was the bike-a-thon. It took a lot longer than I thought."

"Jeff was late, too. I sent him home. Maybe I should send you home, like I did him."

I was too exhausted to argue or be afraid. I was fluffing out my apron to put it on (you know the way you do) and instead let it drap over the counter. I looked at him.

"Are you sending me home?"

He wanted to. I could tell that. But I was his best cook (next to his son, Rich). And he had already sent Jeff home. If he sent me home, too, that would mean he would have to stay and cook, and Norm just wasn't that good. He'd never be able to keep up with a supper rush. He knew that. So he just grumbled at me and left.

I wish he had sent me home. I could hardly move.

Eleven miles is a far cry from fifty, but at my age, weight, and general physical condition it will do. My blood just isn't used to having to move like that anymore. I'm dizzy when I stand up and I even had to bend over the toilet for a bit. But don't worry. This tortoise is going to keep plodding. I don't know how to do anything else. That's what we tortoises do.

Oh. And Randy did enter the Ironman later that summer. At seventy-five miles he stopped and called Stephen to come and bring him home. He didn't make it, and he was ever crabby after that. I could have told him he went farther than I had guessed, but some things you don't say to good friends. They must be a best friend, I guess. Stephen and I would have said.

The Elusive Gift of Confidence

Got a bicycle yesterday. We can't afford the purchase, but there were extenuating reasons why we made it.

Rode with Son three times through the afternoon for a total of forty-five minutes and six miles. Not exactly booking down the road, but my legs feel it today. Put on more than 7,500-steps. Maybe with this bike I will achieve the goal of 10,000-steps much more quickly. Didn't do the treadmill yesterday for doing so much biking. Will try to combine the two. I expect each exercise provides its own benefit.

Got me to thinking about how I learned to ride a two-wheeler. I was five or six years old when I got the bike. As I recall it was too large for me. I was afraid, but Daddy said he would teach me. And he did. But he failed to teach me confidence. He expected that to just come, I guess. It didn't. Confidence and me have never been overly close. One or the other of us always seems to find a way to separate from the other.

Daddy's way of teaching was to hold onto the back of the seat to steady me and then run along as I peddled. I thought that was cool. But there was a problem. You ever try running alongside a bicycle in motion? Even one peddled by a six-year-old? Daddy would have been around thirty-nine or forty. He was strong, but he wasn't a runner. He couldn't keep up. Not his fault.

What I do think was his fault was that he didn't tell me that. In fact, he told me the opposite. He would hang on while I peddled. But he couldn't. Still, I believed he could. I was only six, and not that bright.

I wouldn't get far before I would hear my siblings laughing. By six I had learned that was never a good sign unless I was laughing with them. Turning, I would see Daddy being left behind. I was on my own.

Immediately I would cease to peddle, freeze up in a panic, and eventually fall in a heap with my bicycle. Daddy would come and bring me back and we would do it again. Again he would tell me he would hang on, and again I believed that meant until I was ready for him to let go. How silly of me. I just wasn't getting it. Crash.

I don't recall how many times I crashed. My siblings loved it. It was better than going to a movie. There was no joy like watching someone else be humiliated. Eventually, Daddy had to give up. While not old, he couldn't keep running down the driveway like that. (Dirt driveway.)

He was probably very disappointed in me. I'm sure in his mind he was thinking that I would instantly achieve confidence when I realized I had been biking alone for so long. But that never happened. I panicked every time and crashed. And after that day I never trusted anyone to hold onto the seat. (Daddy had made Mickey do it. Mickey went farther, but even he had to give up trying to keep pace with wheels.)

Reluctantly, Daddy agreed to get me training wheels. I think he felt shamed. He had never even known anyone who had needed training wheels before. Now, one of his children was too afraid to go near a bicycle anymore. So I got training wheels.

I didn't need them long. I remember the neighborhood kids teasing me about them. I didn't much care for the teasing, but it was better than crashing all the time. Then Tommy, Chris's younger brother, went biking with me. It was just the two of us. He kept looking at my wheels. Finally, he told me that he didn't think I needed the extra wheels. Said they never touched the ground until I stopped. (They made an excellent bike stand.) So he talked me into going home and asking Daddy to take them off. Daddy must have been happy in a way. On the one hand I was now daring to ride without the extra help. On the other, he hadn't been the one to bring me to that place.

I feel bad about that, but Daddy just didn't understand. While I was blessed with great physical strength, and a good amount of intelligence, I was crippled emotionally. It takes me ten, or twenty, times longer to develop confidence than others seem to need. There have been very few exceptions to this. I fell in love with the theatre right off. And baseball. And I believe I can tell a good story, even if I don't write so well. And I think I know what it's like to feel someone else's pain. But after that, no.

So yesterday Son and I arrive at the bike shop. Madonna, who sold us Son's bike was there, but busy with another customer. So we got Jason. A nice young guy who probably bikes a hundred miles a day or something. He brought out a nice Trek bike and we went outside so I could test drive it.

I got on, and immediately started to fall to my face. Jasan did an excellent job of trying not to laugh. Did a lousy job of succeeding. After taking a few trips around the parking lot we went back inside so Jason could find another model for me to try. I took the opportunity to ask Son, "So, did I look okay, or did I look really stupid?" I love Son's honesty. "Kind of both."

You know, I can live with that. I don't particularly care to be looking stupid in public (which is why I avoid being in public at every opportunity), but Son's honesty tells me I needn't wonder about it. It is. Knowing the truth somehow makes it easier to bear. I'm hoping I only look stupid because I'm fat. By the end of summer that may not be so true anymore. Then I'll just have other reasons for looking stupid.

Would Daddy be proud of me, I wonder? Or would he think I look stupid, too? Daddy hated stupid.

Fallen Fruit Will Rot on the Ground

Do you remember your dreams? Not the ones you get nightly. I'm talking about those you create in your heart and then play over and over in your conscious thought. Some of you may actually have achieved one or more of your dreams. I'm thinking, though, that most of us do not. For whatever reason, they just don't happen.

How do you respond when you realize your dream will only ever be just that: a dream? Do you remember your first? What was it that captured your imagination for the first time? I still remember mine. It began when I was young. So very young it seems now.

My brother introduced me to baseball when I was five. Probably earlier, but I have no memories before five, so I'm going with that. Mickey would have been fifteen then. I remember him pitching to me when we lived at the "pink and white house", which was the name Helvie and I gave to the pink and white house we lived in up in Shoreview, north of St. Paul. I was batting left-handed. Back then I was exclusively left-handed. My back was nearly to the fence. I remember swinging the bat and feeling the thud of good contact as it struck the ball. I recall how I felt as I watched the ball sail over the heads of everyone and continue over the fence to land in Uncle Harold's yard. I don't know how far I hit it, but considering normal property lines I am guessing it had to have gone more than one hundred feet in the air. I was a power hitter.

Moving to the country meant few organized teams for me. It was difficult to spark enough interest in rural Minnesota back then. We did have one year, 1965 or 1966, when interest was high. My team was the Navigators (I thought that named s*cked), and we wore yellow (a cr*p color for a baseball team). There was no trophy that year, which was too bad, since we won more games than anyone.

I was thirteen I would play on an organized team again. One of the neighboring towns had four teams - and an official field. It was surrounded completely by a fence. The backstop was huge. There were concrete dugouts! And the outfield fence had signs posted to indicate the distances from home plate. The shortest was 375-feet. The longest was 400-feet. We got to play there four times in the season, and then twice in the play-offs. It was there I had one of my "great moments" of the game. What a pity that it should come when I was so young.

I remember the Soderville team had put up its ace pitcher; a tall, lanky boy who threw hard. He may have been a bit taller than me, or perhaps we were the same height, but I had more muscle and bone to work with. He had given up a hit and a walk and was now pitching to me. Now I was batting right-handed, having been forced to convert by my parents and older brother, who somehow viewed being left-handed as a terrible disease. He threw nothing but fast balls. On his fourth pitch he put the ball right where I wanted it. I swung as hard as I could.

It was the same feeling I had when I hit that home run at five. I felt the ball and bat come together perfectly. I saw them meet about belt high, a little in front of home plate. The ball left the bat with the added power of my swing, my hips, my arms, and the turn of my wrists. I knew I had hit it over the left-fielder's head. Now, if I could only run fast enough I should be able to round the bases. The ball might even roll to the fence.

I vaguely remember hearing the cheers when I hit it. Back then parents often sat in their cars and honked the horn whenever anything of worth took place. I don't really remember it going quiet, but it did. What I do remember was glancing to left-field as I came up and around second base. I could see the left fielder still running. The ball had rolled to the fence! Then, as I came to third, the coach, who was coaching third base, held out his hand and told me to quit running. So I walked in to home plate.

When I got to the dugout I realized nobody was cheering. Nobody was saying anything much. They were just staring at me. So I asked what had happened. Tommy, who was sitting next to me, asked why I had run so hard. I said I wanted to be sure I got the home run. Why? That was when Kevin told me what had happened.

"Well you already had that, stupid. You hit it over the fence."

I was dumbfounded. I looked out to the field and, sure enough, the opposing team's outfielders were searching the tall grass on the other side of the fence. It took several minutes before they found it because the grass was so thick. When they did, the opposing coach stepped it off. No one knew for certain, but the guesstimate was that I had hit it 430-feet. My coach took the ball and had everyone on the team sign it and I got to keep it. It became my most prized possession, until the house burned two years later. I got a replacement ball, but the person who gave it to me wrote 375-feet, because that was what the marker on the fence said. I don't know if I still have that one.

I was a good ballplayer, but kind of a big fish in a small pond. Apparently, I lacked something. I was scouted, both by colleges and by the major leagues. But no one came to my door to offer anything. Whatever they wanted, I didn't have it. I've often wondered if my taking a year off to do drama club didn't make a difference. I didn't play as well when I came back, due to my teammates no longer accepting me. I needed that to play well. When I was up I played better than anyone I knew. But when I was down, which happened, I wasn't much good at all. I suppose if I had achieved this dream it would have destroyed me. Maybe that's what I lacked. I was good, but I didn't have the skills of Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Rod Carew, or Roberto Clemente. So without the rest it was just a waste of time to bring me up.

When I realized my baseball dream was over I went into coast mode, and stayed there a long time. Writing got me out of it, but only while the inspiration lasted. When that died I returned to coast mode, where I have remained until just recently.

Now I'm staring into the face of my other dream and wondering: Do I have what it takes this time?

A Timid Groundhog Fears Its Shadow

Okay. I set myself up for this and so I'm paying my penance. You were curious to know what Bevie James looks like? Well, I don't have any recent pictures to show you. Neither Spouse nor Son takes my picture very often. Got lots of Spouse and Son, though. But that wasn't the question, was it?

All three of these pictures are at least twelve years old. The first two were taken about fifteen years ago, when Spouse and I had our first house built. The third was just over twelve years ago. Right after Son was born.

My best side. I am leaning on the floor of what will eventually become our living room. I am standing in the dining room. Below the living room is the family room. I designed that room myself, and when we put the house up for sale it became the focal point for all buyers. I had a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling entertainment center built in along the wall to my right in the picture. Against the far wall I had a fireplace. I kind of wish we hadn't sold that house. So many things went wrong after we did.

Below is me - and my little red car. The 1992 Mitsubishi Eclipse. It had fifteen miles on it when we bought it. Now it's over one hundred thousand. Back then it was almost brand new. We built the house in 1994. Like me, the car has seen better days. The driver's seat is broken. The passenger seat is stained with pizza grease. The seals on the windows and rear hatch are torn. The driver's window won't roll up unless I stop the car and pull it pull it up with my hands. The air conditioning is broken. The front bumper was destroyed while delivering pizza to someone who hadn't plowed their driveway. Spouse tried to talk me into selling that car many many times, but I always resisted. Some day, when we have money again, I'm going to fix that car back up. It's such a pretty car. Oh, and only one hubcap remains.

Below is without a doubt my favorite picture of me. In fact, it is probably the only picture of me I have ever liked. It was taken not long after Son was born. See how we're looking into each other's eyes? We used to do that endlessly. I read stories to him before he was born. I would lay sideways on the bed and read into Spouse's stomach. And I would sing, too. Elton John's, Blessed. The night he was born (11:36 p.m.) the attending nurse cleaned him up, wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to me. I paced the room for an hour while they tended to Spouse (who didn't even know I was there). I talked and sang to him the entire time. Then, after an hour, Spouse was ready to take her son. I handed him over and he fell asleep. I think the reason the picture below worked is that neither Son nor I knew it was being taken. We were caught in our natural states. Laughing. I'm in a white t-shirt, which is also my normal attire. My hair hangs over my head like a mop. The same it has done for over forty years. It looks like I've shaved my cheeks and neck though. That's not usual.

Not on My Best Day

Judayl sent me an email with this in it. Asked me if I could do this. (Read post title.) I just had to include it on my blog. Don't ever say again that jumping rope is for sissies. This took incredible athletic talent as well as choreographic talent as well as physical endurance. Amazing.



Tried this at home and nearly killed myself. No. Just kidding. I was exhausted just watching. Talk about deserving a standing ovation.