My skin care routine vaguely resembles Cher’s wardrobe: minimalistic at best. So why am I a club member for an expensive line of skin care products? Why do I have two unopened boxes of a 90 day supply of cleanser and moisturizer, which I fully intend to re-gift to family members this Christmas? Because I looked in the mirror one morning and realized that I look like Ed McMahon on a good day. I have a dark splotch on one cheek that looks like the Virgin Mary.
Somehow I got the wild idea that if I made a commitment to a simple morning routine, I would stick to it. Past experience has taught me nothing.
Previous diet plans which worked included: a deep depression; drinking more of my meals than I ate; and cigarettes and diet Coke. Now I’m trying to lose weight the old fashioned way: salt water taffy and denial.
My fear of commitment stems from the fact that I’m bad at it. I find it hard to accept that my body is changing as I get older; even harder to change the habits of a lifetime.
Perhaps my biggest fear is falling. A couple years ago, shortly after I learned that I have osteoporosis, my shoulder snapped like a twig. One minute I was walking the dog, the next I was in the emergency room with a tube of KY jelly, trying to get my wedding ring off before my finger could swell up to the size of a bratwurst.
I love to watch football, but each time I see someone fall in a manner which bends an arm or leg in a direction which God never intended, I’m reminded of my shoulder. I am afraid that I might fall on asphalt, in the bathtub, or in a darkened movie theater. The latter has more to do with the condition of movie theater floors.
I think the ultimate commitment would be a bathroom “appliance.” Anytime you have to find a stud in a wall, whatever you’re hanging is staying for good. This, more than anything else is the main reason that I repeatedly abandoned the idea of hanging a trapeze in the bedroom. I instinctively knew that one day I would be too old for aerial acrobatics. I’ll have to make a decision on that bar in the bathroom, before washing between my toes qualifies as a circus act.