Write one true sentence.
Right now I’m sitting in an old fashioned barber chair watching my wife get her hair cut.
It’s in the basement of the Alta Club. Angie is the men’s and women’s hair person. She’s still wearing a mask. So is my wife. I’ve tried calling my thirteen year old grandson to check his math. Not answering. Called my son to catch up. Not answering. Called my stock broker. Not answering.
I’m a cross between a paranoid and a person who feels sorry for himself. The latter would have me concluding no one is calling because I’m 76. On the paranoid side – they’re sick of me and are avoiding me.
Actually both are probably a bit true.
But, there’s a third possibility. I’m hungry. I refuse to give into my hunger because I refuse to keep my beer belly.
Of all three possibilities, the third one bugs me the most.
So what am I doing about it?
They won’t do cold-sculpting, liposuction, or tummy tuck, because my fat is behind the muscle wall. Upon being examined the doctor told me I had a tear in the belly button cord. Can’t fix it until my belly loses some fat.
So, what am I doing about all this? I don’t care about the first two possibilities. On the third one I’m walking my butt off. Two meals a day, push ups, walking, walking, WALKING IN PLACE moving my MY HIPS back and forth. Drinking Green Tea HP.
Yeap, I became de-conditioned this past year. Being inside and isolated for over twelve months didn’t bother me. I was used to it from my childhood bout with polio where I was bedridden and in a wheelchair for close to a year.
Honest to goodness I thought I saw a little shrinkage in my stomach. I measured and I have the same waist as yesterday, but I measured my chest and it is half an inch larger. It makes my stomach look smaller. Good for the push ups.
By the way, I started getting call backs. My grandson called me back, so did my son, and stock broker. Paranoia and feeling sorry for myself gone.