If Only This Were A Joke

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The Girl Effect: Watch This!

My 42 Mile Personal Tune-Up

I had some minor surgery today, a few moles removed, and a strange lumpy thing taken off the top of my head. My doctor said it was a wen. Don’t look that up — it’s gross. Suffice to say that it doesn’t belong on anyone’s head. It’s unnerving, and it makes your hair stick up like Alfalfa.

It was all quick and relatively painless. The moles were removed with a laser, so the only thing that stung a bit was the numbing agent. In short, not a big deal. It was easy, like changing the oil in your car, patching up your bike tire, or replacing that piece of kitchen tile that the dog chewed. It’s the little things that make the whole look good.

I have a theory about personal maintenance — actually, I have a theory about everything, but this one is more important than most. Take care of yourself. As soon as you begin to let the little things go, you’re headed for big trouble. I have great aunts who look like catfish. At some point, they stopped plucking those menopausal wild hairs on their lips and chins. They stopped caring about the odd gruesome facial mole, or wearing a good bra, or pretending not to despise people of different races and religions. They grew tight, and narrow, and miserable, and they look it.

I don’t wish they looked like Liberace or Joan Rivers. I like my gray hair, and I want a face with some character, or at the very least, some expressive mobility. But your body is like a car. One day, you’re driving something brand-spanking new and shiny. The next, the driver’s side door won’t open, you’ve got a broken belt on the left rear tire, and the dash lights only come on if you dial the radio to 1250 am. Bit by bit, your fine car has become a piece of shit. No one wants to ride with you because of the old French fries and Skittles stuck to your upholstery. How in the hell did you get to this point? You didn’t fix each little thing as it broke. You waited until you’d reached critical mass, and then you gave up on the whole damned thing. Now, you’re skating towards the grave in a body that looks like Earl Hickey’s El Camino. Is that what you really want?

I don’t care how old you are, 35, 45, or 75, you’re not OLD unless you want to be. No, I can’t run like I used to, knock a softball over the back fence, or trust my back not to go out when I bend to tie my shoelaces, but the world is still an interesting place, and I want to be an active part of it. A little healthy vanity is good for you. A little healthy vanity is good for your fellow man.

I used to work with a woman who had a big, hairy mole just above her lip. It looked like a densely-forested mountaintop. She had excellent health insurance and enough money to buy an RV the size of George Bush’s ego, but she wouldn’t pay the hundred bucks to have that thing removed. I don’t know – maybe she had some secret agenda. Maybe she thought if people stared at her hairy mole, they wouldn’t look at her boobs, or notice that when it came to her job, she didn’t know her ass from her elbow. Or maybe she was in the Witness Protection Program. If so, then it worked. Ten years later, I can’t remember her name. I only think of her as Scary Hairy Mole Woman.

You don’t need to be a skinny supermodel to look good. Skinny supermodels don’t look good. They look like coat hangers. I’d rather be me than Kate Moss. Okay, I’d really rather be Serena Williams, but I’m realistic. I’m also lazy. I play tennis for fun, not because my dad is a clay court maniac.

The point of this ramble? Pimp your car, pimp your body, pimp your face. Look good, feel good, and feel good that you look good.

God Wants Me To Have An Intellectual Yard Sale

I know what you’re thinking. God doesn’t care about yard sales. He’s far too busy rigging NASCAR races, opposing same-sex marriage, and telling megalomaniacs to run for president. But you’re wrong. I know that God wants me to have a yard sale because I’ve got too damned many books. It pains me to say it, but this morning, I put my back out hauling my 37th box of books from the garage to the living room, where I’ve just installed two more sets of shelves. I’ve decided to take that as a message from on high though it resonated down low, just above the waistband of my shorts. You know the spot, right where Angelina Jolie has that entrancing tramp stamp. Me? I’ve just got a fresh application of Icy Hot.

Listen, if God is really interested in the gender of my spouse, Barack Obama’s Christian credentials, or how much money that pink-haired, monkey-faced woman on TBN rakes in, then God is perfectly capable of taking an interest in my outrageous accumulation of books. I’ve heard that seven moves is equal to a house fire, and I’m taking that seriously. God is one Zippo lightning bolt away from ensuring that I never again pack up my graduate student notes on Beowulf and schlep them to another home. I’m sure that God, in his infinite wisdom, knows what I only dare suspect – that I am never going to write my dissertation. I’ve been ABD for 14 years. I write novels now. It’s time to move on. Thy will be done. Amen.

But . . . Job-like, I can’t quite do it. I can’t let go of my marked-up copy of Foucault’s Discipline and Punish. I can’t forget the meaning of words like metonymy, even though they have no use in everyday conversation. Someday, I may morph into Dick Cavett. Then I’ll be making obscure jokes about cognitive linguistics instead of wishing I’d written Joy’s best lines on My Name Is Earl.