Sitting on my board, which seemed to be a bit more under the water than it was in years past, I waited for a perfect wave. The other surfers reminded me of the kid who waited on me the day before at the surf shop. I went in to get some wax but all I got was the strangest questions from the clerk who could have been my grandson. He asked me if I knew that my board was an antique. An old Hansen Long Board. I told him I did and as I was leaving I remember being thankful that he was talking about the board and not me.
Finally my wave appeared. A little more out of focus then I remembered yet I knew it was my wave. The other surfers must have known that the wave was mine because all of a sudden they got out of my way. I pushed into the wave with my half sunk board, caught the crest and began to jump up like I had done a thousand times before, too many years ago. But what was this. I looked down and observed, not my feet but this large protrusion coming out of my stomach. To my dismay it wasn't a protrusion, it was my stomach. My wet suit made it look like an over inflated silicon implant. I know I didn't have that before. It was so immense that I couldn't see my feet and thus get control of the board. Now I know why the other surfers gave way.
Feeling basically dejected I traveled back to my corner of the beach thinking about the many instances of my life that have changed during the years. Even having the flu is different then it was in the recent past. There seems to be nothing more pathetic than a small child suffering from the flu. The teary eyes and congested breath always bring sympathy to those who dare come close. In fact, as a child, all you had to do to get attention was yield a little sigh or inhale a tiny sniffle. After that, you were showered with beautiful presents and nourishing, great-tasting foods.
Sick days off from school were second only to the magic kingdom. Televisions were flashed in front of you with pillows perpetually fluffed to your back. Medicines were given, hidden in the best tasting desserts to be found.
If you were forced to go out with your parents or friends, a literal army of compassionate adults would surround you and exclaim how helplessly cute you looked. And most of all, your head was perpetually being patted and whole body hugged in hopes that pure love itself would be the cure.
But alas, now as a respected 45-year old sick person, the glories of the flu are totally reversed. Gone are the attentions rendered by the little sigh or little sniff. In fact, the only way I can achieve even the slightest attention is to fall down onto my knees in a coughing fit. After raising a few heads, I attract requests to, "Quiet down", and "Who do you think you are fooling." The classic comment is being told to grow up and shut up. Not necessarily in that order.
Gone are the many little trinkets you were showered with in your youth, to be replaced only by questions asking who would fix what needed to be fixed and who were you near that you acquired such a foolish and stupid cold.
You are also told to stay away from all food in the house for even to gaze upon the family's stock would immediately be reason for the disease to be spread throughout the entire family. Food is only meant for the healthy and the young. A sickly old person wanting food only shows that he isn't really sick at all.
Work must be tended to at all costs, even though, at time of employment you were allotted at least two sick days per year. Everyone knew that if you dared to take one, you became the first in line to take as many sick days as you wanted forever - without pay.
Why do you think that the oldest employees always boast of how many years of sick days they have in the bank? I sincerely believe that the only way to withdraw those sick days is to go on long-term disability.
Televisions are also meant for the healthy, for how dare anyone who is truly sick come into the family room to watch television. Any sickly adult who would dare to do such a thing is just hoping to inflict upon his family the very plague that he is faking.
Pillows too are meant for the healthy head. Anyone above the age of 18 inflicted with the flu is condemned to lie on the extra pillow that was rotting in the upstairs closet, to be brought out only for the sickly adult or a visiting aunt.
It seems that to touch a sick adult is to touch death itself. Instead you hear, "Put the fan on" or "You're in the bathroom again?". "Get away from me and the children", is also a command heard many times by the sickly adult. And an occasional, "You sex fiend", is exclaimed. You see, a hug asked for by the sick adult immediately defines him as being a "sick" adult.
If you think you can go back into your past by visiting your immediate family, forget it. The rules of the game are standard. The sick adult lives under a completely different set of rules than that of the sick child. The child inflicted with the flu is a pathetic sight. The adult with the same flu is just pathetic.
My short surfing adventure made me a little hungry. But my hunger also brought back memories of my past. God, maybe I am suffering through the big one. The dreaded mid-life crisis. Looking over to my wife I realize that I am very fortunate to be married to a beautiful woman who is conscious about her health and her weight, as well as the health and weight of her family members.
She keeps her weight at approximately 110 pounds, and has taught our daughter to do the same. I, on the other hand, represent a problem. Seeing my weight cruise over the 200 pound mark, I represent a kind of failure to my wife. Because of this, she is perpetually trying to get my weight under control by serving light and healthy meals. For this, my body thanks her, but my mind yearns for the type of foods my mother used to serve.
For breakfast, I used to have three eggs over light, cooked in real butter. One half pound of bacon was easily eaten sandwiched between three or four English muffins, dripping with butter and strawberry preserves. Orange juice was always served with this meal , but it was not uncommon to drink a quart and a half of fresh, cold, whole milk with the meal. One thing we never did was weigh our portions or count calories. In fact, I don't believe we knew what calories were.
Today for breakfast, I was served exactly three ounces of bran flakes immersed in six ounces of skim milk. The cereal was sweetened by one half package of not-quite-real sugar and one-half of a banana is placed on the side, or sliced in the cereal. For a beverage, I am allowed one cup of black coffee. I am happy to say that the coffee has a full dose of caffeine.
Lunch used to be a meal of champions. My favorite consisted of at least two one- pound cheeseburgers cooked on a hibachi grill. Piles, not ounces of French fries were eaten on the side, with four or five giant dill pickles, whose juice soaked the hamburger buns. The beverage consisted of either coke (at the time there was only one variety) or at least two more quarts of real whole milk. We never cared how much milk fat was in the drink, because I don't think we knew what milk fat was.
Earlier for lunch, I was served exactly six ounces of non-salted turkey breast placed with not-quite-real cheese in a half pouch of Syrian bread. The turkey is salted with - you guessed it - not-quite-real salt and pepper. For a beverage, I have a 12-ounce can of diet non-caffeinated cola. For dessert, I had one medium-sized apple. I believe the apple was real.
Dinner was always a feast. We never started with a salad. In fact, I didn't know what a salad was until I was 13. This meal always began with at least one loaf of hot, hard, crusty bread. Butter was never a problem, because we always had the giant, one- pound block. The meal itself consisted of mountains of meat covering with even higher mountains of mashed potatoes. The vegetable was always covered with mounds of butter or cheese. Of course, one portion was never enough, and each succeeding helping was at least as large as the one before. You also never had to, "make room", for dessert, because we never knew what it was like not to have room. Dessert consisted of huge portions of ice cream, usually Neapolitan, drenched in hot chocolate sauce and whipped cream. Yes, you guessed it, real whipped cream....the kind with plenty of sugar.
Tonight for dinner, I will be allotted as much salad as I want. The only drawback is that I can only use a seasoned vinegar as dressing. The main meal consists of either turkey meat loaf or broiled chicken breast without the skin. One small, red potato is allowed, with one half a teaspoon of, you guessed it again, not-quite-real margarine. The vegetable is always fresh but never covered by anything but its natural skin. Dessert consists of one cup of frozen yogurt, or one not-quite real yogurt fudgicle.
In my youth the meals never ended at dinner. After-dinner snacks were big. On most occasions, a box of cheese nips, or at least two bags of potato chips were gobbled up. Milk flowed like water. To this day, the best taste of my past is a highly-salted potato chip dripping in its own highly-saturated oil being washed down by a glass of ice-cold milk. I even remember licking the inside of the bag.
Tonight, I will be allocated one cup of not-so-real chips. I can't call them potato chips, because in reality I don't know what they are. One time, I remember chewing one of them for so long that my wife finally asked me what I had in my mouth. It turned out to be a coupon that had been placed in the bag, but I couldn't tell the difference between it and the chips. Come to think of it, the coupon had a better texture.
Water is big in my house now, and I am excited to say that I am allowed as much as my bladder can take. If it sounds like I'm complaining, I'm not. I praise the day my wife came into my life, because she obviously saved it. It's just that my taste buds won't forget the days when ignorance was bliss. From experience, I can tell you that ignorance tastes much better than knowledge.
I guess some people would say that I am feeling sorry for myself and others will say that I am suffering through a mid-life crisis. Whatever it is I think I'll just squirm out of this wet suit, put my board away for another couple of decades, and play beach bocci. Which, by the way, is another story.