Red Moon Rising - A Cautionary Tail

“Here is my journey's end, here is my butt; And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.” 
 - William Shakespeare

Some days are screwy right from the get go. The other morning was one such example; I woke up and my butt was on fire. I'm not taking about the flames and conflagration type. I'm talking about the blazing kind of burning that smolders below your skin, that even a dead man would scratch. And that's exactly what I did.

Originally, I thought perhaps I had been bitten by some creepy crawler that had the nerve to invade the bliss of my sleep and the serenity of my bed. Still, there was no tell-tale signs of itchiness, welts, bumps, puncture marks or otherwise. There was only an inflamed hotspot raging on my left butt cheek. It felt feverish to the touch and dense to my groping. For a moment it occurred to me that the previous evening I had watched the Exorcist, but I quickly dismissed this mental digression.

Whatever it was, it had clearly manifested itself in such a way that it made its presence felt like a rabid dog in an alley. My right butt cheek, in comparison, was indifferent to its twin's histrionics. Yes, there was certainly a great divide between the two.

I hadn't completely ruled out being bitten, so I decided a closer examination was in order. This proved difficult, physically and mentally. Standing before a full length mirror, I held a hand mirror low trying hard to get an angle at which I could either see the offending heat patch or reflect it's apparition to the larger mirror. I leaned over, bent backwards and even attempted a half-pretzel type position that would make the yoga intensive proud and the Karate Kid nervous. Yet, it was to no avail. I was denied further inspection by both my gut and poor vision.

Eventually, I sauntered off to the bathroom to take my morning shower, hoping that a cascading stream of cool water might douse the blaze and can the heat. I stood for some time in the bathtub letting a deluge of water, soap and suds wash over my backside. I imagined the heavens had opened on me, raining down relief via my shower head. Temporarily, I forgot my pestilent posterior and the marauding hotspot fanning the flames of my fanny.

I stepped from the shower and began to towel myself dry. To my horror, I discovered that my entire groin and lower torso had turned red! It was a glowing red. I realized that it was time to panic, as my cortisol levels began to soar, my glands began to throb, and sweat started to form on the bridge of my nose.

Was this something new? How could I have missed this when I did my 'mirror contortion' number? For awhile, I've harbored a growing suspicion that I might be allergic to my tap water. Was this new outbreak related to the confounding hotspot, still undulating waves of heat on my derriere, or at least half of it? What intrasomatic conspiracy was burgeoning in the recesses of my epidermis? Why had things gone from rump to rumpus?

Mustering the courage needed to combat this affront to my immune system, I dropped my towel, donned my bathrobe, and proceeded towards my arms cache to combat this onslaught of inflammation; this affront to my immune system. I gingerly opened the medicine cabinet and perused the collection of creams, ointments, and pills. By all that is holy I would slew this pillaging invader of my flesh.

Hydrocortisones, antihistamines, galore! Antifungals, anti-inflammatories and more! And, then the slathering, rubbing and massaging, and pill popping began in earnest. A few hours later I would be lying on my couch under the droning of the air conditioner, an empty bottle of baby powder in my hand, its contents swirling in puffy wisps around my shorts.

The next day, my rash had faded and the hotspot on my bottom had receded from whence it came. I apparently was the victim of an insidious hit and run heat rash that threatened to consume my nether regions, as well as my sanity. Of course, questions still remain concerning the mysterious hotspot that waxed and waned like the moon, … you know the one in the sky.

Lastly, concerning this last of a long line ongoing struggles with my body, this whole predicament has left me scratching my head, which is better than scratching my butt, which is exactly how that morning began. In retrospect, I should have known better, but at least, as they say, hindsight is always 20-20.

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PS. Thanks for reading. Heat rashes are perfectly normal occurrences during heatwaves. Hydrocortisones usually work well, though people still prefer to sit in a bathtub full of oatmeal. Are you susceptible to heat rashes, or do you just embarrass easily?

For more 'Intrasomatic Conspiracy' posts, please click here.

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Put The Pork Down! Step Away From The Table!

Born In The USA ?

"My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four unless there are three other people!" - Orson Welles

Seeing as a new strain of  Escherichia Coli is spreading across Europe, I thought the timing was ripe for me to focus on all matters gastronomical. Don't let the technical term for e. coli scare you, it's still the same old bacteria that might be swarming over your 'gherkin' - um, that's German for cucumber, and of course it's those German cukes you do want to be careful of. Know what I mean? I think you do!

Anyway, recently I read an article in USA Today excusing the fact that Americans are rotund, overweight, fat, tubby and obese. No, terms like 'pleasantly' or 'deliciously' plump did not spring to mind, nor did the culturally insignificant 'zaftig'. I was amazed at how wishy washy and namby pamby the exoneration was for us Americans who readily squirt Ready Whip and Cheez Whiz down our gullets. Perhaps the author intended to inspire sympathy for a nation of genetically challenged porkers. I'm not sure, but let's be honest here, I'm an American, ipso facto I've been conditioned to consume ad nauseum. I'm fat, and it's not because of my DNA. It's because I open my mouth and act like a Hoover vacuum cleaner whenever I'm at the table, in front of the fridge, and at every convenience store I chance to pass.

Yes, I love to (in alphabetical order) banquet, chow down, devour, digest, dine, eat, feast upon, gobble up, gorge, gormandize, lunch, make a pig of myself, munch, nibble, nosh, partake there of, peck, pick, pig out, polish off my plate, pork out, scarf and scoff, snack, swallow whole, and wolf down anything edible. I draw the line at grazing, however, as I'm not an animal!

I attack my plate with gusto and revel in my cultural heritage (burp). It's amazing that my jaws haven't burned out from years of overuse. When asked the philosophical question "do we live to eat or eat to live", I am most likely to respond with my mouth full. I exude gastronomic hedonism, but not in a hell-bent way ala' the late Marlon Brando.

Now, I know that I'm not alone in saying that for us gluttons there is a double whammy; we really do enjoy our food (read: eating, cooking) and we also abuse it as a source of comfort to us in time of stress. We worry and so we eat. We're nervous and so we eat. We're upset because we eat so much ... and so we eat some more. Heapings of mashed potatoes topped with dollops of gravy, fried chicken dipped in BBQ sauce with a side of spare ribs, pizza with all the toppings and some garlic bread, ... and then there's lunch and dinner.

Suffice it to say that it's hard losing weight. It's even harder not gaining weight! Adding insult to injury, the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) recently unveiled their new logo to replace the old food pyramid. They replaced it with a plate of food. Are they kidding? Don't they understand that if they show us a plate of food, there will be mass salivating of biblical proportions? So much so that the flow of drool will make the recent flooding in Missouri look like a babbling brook.

Given that we Americans are addicted to our food, one might wonder why it's the USDA involved in promoting nutrition and not the the Food & Drug Administration (FDA). After all, isn't one of the missions of the USDA to support food producers and promote their products? The answer is obvious: more brainwashing compliments of the powers that be. Make people hungry and watch the sales tax flow like ... well like the aforementioned drool. If you ask me, this smacks more of the domain of the Department of Homeland Security, whose mission it is to "ensure a homeland that is safe, secure, and resilient against terrorism and other hazards". In terms of 'hazard', it's a no brainer that all the junk food, fast food and comfort food we shove down our throats is killing us!

I don't smoke. I don't drink (well, at least not to excess). I don't snort anything besides my own snot. But I eat. It's a sickness. But what bothers me is how others are profiting from my misery, and all in the name of good ole American free enterprise. Fast food has become synonmous with the USA. It's as American as blue jeans, baseball and apple pie (which technically also qualifies as junk food). At some point, we the porkers of the United States of America need to stand up and shout "no thanks!" to McDonalds, Burger King, Wendys, and Taco Bell. No thanks, we don't want your poison. We need to tell 'the Colonel' we don't want his three-boobed, six legged Kentucky Fried Chickens ... though a few spare 'Hot Wings' can't hurt, right?

We need to stop terrorizing our bodies and nuture our health and minds, not our guts. We need to stop supporting pharmaceutical manafacturers who hawk their bottles of antacids and Pepto Bismol to us in the name of gastronomic distress relief, and who also produce toxic food additives that prevent us from feeling full and keep us coming back for more.

Lastly, we need to tell Uncle Sam that he needs to start taking care of his own, and not 'big business' lobbyists with appetites only for our disposable income. If the USDA really wanted to help, they'd plaster the following words across their fangled and newly minted plate: "Put the pork down! Step away from the table!"

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PS. Thanks for reading. It's been said that more die in the United States of too much food than of too little (John Kenneth Galbraith). Do you agree or would you rather I get back to you after dinner? Either way, let me know (burp).

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Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 5 - Not Born To Run

Once you’re over the hill, you begin to pick up speed.
- Charles M. Schulz

I've mentioned before that just when I seem to be making headway in terms of achieving some semblance of physical fitness, or even a modicum thereof, my body seems to rebel. I've referred in the past to this as an 'intrasomatic conspiracy'. Well, it seems that having gotten off on the right foot by going to the gym and losing about 10 pounds, insurrection is afoot; my hip is definitely not hopping.

It started the other morning. I woke up, went into the kitchen, made some coffee, and stared into silence waiting for the first few dregs of java hued droplets to drip ... and then it happened. Pop went the 'crunch'. It's kind of hard to explain, but my left leg sort of felt like it had attempted to migrate to a no-loitering zone. There was a mild pain, nothing to shout about, but something was definitely off. The coffee began to percolate and off I hobbled to a nook in the wall to brace myself for ... well, dislocation I had imagined. So for the last week or so, I've felt like an old dog with rickety hips. You know, the ones they usually hook up to wheels before they put them down.

It's funny because just a month ago I was asking one of the gym trainers about increasing the intensity of my gym routine. Specifically, I had asked about running on the treadmill, instead of walking, or fast walking, as I do. What I was concerned about was whether there was a certain speed at which it becomes unsafe to no longer walk briskly, because your gait resembles more than that of a three-legged frog in a hurry - sort of as if your appendages are about to go flying off in different directions. Anyway, I thought it might be time to run with the rest of the gym pack, huffing, puffing, and sweating like world class sprinters.

However, the trainer suggested I not run until I lost more weight. She mentioned something about heart attacks, dropping dead and corpses shooting off treadmills hitting other members. Yes, I concurred, we wouldn't want to risk injuring the other gym members. So instead of running, I was instructed to increase the incline of the treadmill to provide for a greater workout. I guess I should be happy; things are looking up, at least by five percent.

Yes, it did begin to bother me that after 3 months of going to the gym, I still get winded running for a bus or walking uphill. Ok, maybe 'winded' is not the best description. I feel more like like my heart is going to jump out of my chest, sort of like that 'chestburster' creature in the Alien movie. Get the picture? I think you do.

Now to be honest, running was never my strong suit. Growing up, I never really liked playing basketball because of all the nonstop running and jumping ad nauseum. Playing football was much more to my liking; it was stop and go. You might run all out for one play, then you stop, re-huddle, discuss things for a while, and then catch your breath. Playing baseball was even better, especially if you played the outfield, which I did. There was plenty of time out there to relax, mull over your existence, decide what to eat for dinner and even attain nirvana, if you were so inclined. Yes, I guess I was not born to run. In fact, I think my ability to do sit-ups is suspect, as well.

Let's be honest here, it's commonly understood that as we age, we all slow down. Joints go pop, tendons turn brittle, muscles knot, arthritis sets in, skin sags, and bones rattle and crack. Gravity mocks us as it pulls us closer to the ground as if to suggest that perhaps we were born to slack... or at least, return to the earth and dust from whence we sprang.

Not one of my best days.
Shades of "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up."

So my mysterious hip ailment has curtailed my morning gym regimen to some extent. I suspect it may be lower back related, so I'm doing some stretches an orthopedic gave me when I turned 30, the dawning of lower back pain in humans. I'm still plodding along at the gym, albeit at a slower pace and with less frequency than before. I determined not to give in to my body's subversive self sabotage, and our biological propensity for senescence - a fancy word for aging. See? You're never too old to learn something new ... until dementia and senility set in. See? You're never too old to learn something new ... until dementia and senility set in. See? You're never too old to learn something new ... until dementia and senility set in.

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PS. Thanks for reading. Do you have a handle on where your mysterious aches and pains stem from, or do you just need a handle to rise to the occasion... or any occasion? How do you deal with aging? Are you determined to age gracefully, or  ... are you  never too old to learn something new until dementia and senility set in ... uh, what was I saying and why does my hip hurt? 

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Previous 'Intrasomatic Conspiracy' Posts:

Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 1 - An Ill Wind Blows

Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 2 - Attack of the Medical Acronyms

Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 3 - The Inflammation Wars 

Intrasomatic Conspiracy: Part 4 - Going To The Gym (A New Hope)

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