KEEP ON MOVING

This morning I walked past the exercise room on my way to the swimming pool.  I stopped and watched in awe as I saw several really old folks (like me) pushing, pulling, sweating, grunting and walking on the exercise equipment. I’m not sure if any of them qualify as “hard bodies,” but no one can argue that they aren’t maximizing being as healthy as possible—unless one of the machines throws them off.

I take a different approach. I try to hike outside for at least an hour, or 45 minutes, every morning—unless the sun tells me it’s time for air-conditioning. I’ve also become an avid fan of Chair Yoga. I stretch and sit in a chair, because lying on a mat hurts my back. I even do Yoga exercises in the pool. However, I don’t touch my toes, because  then I would drown.

When I was a child, exercise involved Mom yelling, “Go out and play!” I enjoyed roller skating, but that meant wearing leather shoes and tightening the skates around my shoes with a metal key. Everyday, I’d hit a crack in the sidewalk and the skates would fly off and I’d go home with skinned knees. Safety wasn’t that much of an issue in those days. I can’t remember a piece of play equipment that didn’t bloody my elbows or knees. The see-saw was fun until I sat way up high and the kid at the bottom ran off to play elsewhere as I hit the ground.  I liked my bike with the thick tires until I hit a wall. In my case, Klutz took on a whole new meaning. My favorite exercise in those days was climbing the neighbor’s apple tree, eating the apples and making up stories about the clouds in the sky.

High School not only required physical activity but added a sadistic gym teacher named Fanny to the equation. If she caught a girl chewing gum in class, she’d make her spit the gum on the gym floor, step on it and then scrape it up with a dull knife. Fanny also shouted, “Scrub pimples with soap!” Climbing ropes was big on her agenda.  I was too short to reach the ropes let along climb them, and, Field Hockey was played without shin guards. I quickly volunteered to be the umpire.  I wasn’t a very good umpire, but my friends didn’t care because they weren’t very good players.

At college, I was required to take four non-credit quarters of physical education. My first choice was tennis which involved a lot of running around and trying to hit a little ball with my big racquet. I received an A for attendance. The second course I chose was fencing. I did quite well until a six foot Amazon came at me, and I ran like Hell. She chased me around the room until she realized that the rubber tip had fallen off her foil.  Then I stumbled upon a class called “Posture, Figure and Carriage.” That I could do!  I walked around with a book on my head. I think the teacher thought that one could absorb Tolstoy through the hair.  After walking around we’d lie down and learn how to relax, which I enjoyed very much—especially after walking in the snow— way across campus to get to the P.E. building. To fill the requirement, I took this class twice. The Physical Education, non- credit class was dropped the next year.  I think that was the year they added Statistics to the Foreign Language Department.

I used to be a good swimmer until I tore up my shoulder. So, now I go to the pool, do my Yoga, and then I float about with a pool noodle making up stories about the clouds.

 I have traded roller skates for a walking stick. When I turned 80, my son, Josh requested that I get one. He said, “Mom, when you go hiking in the mountains the walking stick will protect you from falls, and from mountain lions.” He was right. So far, I haven’t fallen or been eaten by a mountain lion. The one time I did encounter a mountain lion, she took one look at me and obviously had no taste for old meat.

Esther Blumenfeld  (Four breaths in.  Five breaths out.  It works every time

IS A BUTTERFLY A FISH?

As I established in my last column, we don’t have to worry about an uprising of fish, because, not only do we have a fully trained military to protect us, we also have all those licensed fishermen who can bait a hook without injuring anyone except maybe their own thumbs.

 A license ensures that a person is not only competent, but has been trained, and has passed a test to do something complex such as driving a car. When misused, an automobile can be classified as a deadly weapon.

 So, why do 41 states require make-up artists, who work in spas and salons, to have licenses, and gun owners do not?  I think it’s because applying makeup can be very dangerous, especially when the make-up artist pulls the trigger on his high-capacity foundation spritzer, and a woman’s smile turns into a smirk.

Unarmed security guards are licensed in 32 states. North Dakota even requires them to have 1000 hours of experience before becoming eligible to walk around and check the doors. Who needs guns when you’ve got snowballs?  Lots of folks need licenses to do a variety of things. In Louisiana a person needs to pass an exam for a floristry license, because that will assure people that you’ve been well-trained and will not put Poison Ivy into a wedding bouquet.

And then, there’s the marriage license. Some people want to control who should be allowed to marry the person they love, but those people don’t care if the prospective father-in-law   brings an assault  rifle to the wedding. However, I do admit that buckshot is hard to control.

I am not sure that sex is more dangerous than an AK-77, but a lot of it has to be licensed. Whether you have a strip club, nude dancers, a store loaded with sex toys (not motorcycles), adult books, videos or sex films the owners have to go through stringent licensing requirements.

In Florida, minors are protected by laws that they cannot be involved in sex films. That is certainly vital!  All children should be protected from the monster who carries an assault camera loaded with film!

By the way, if a person doesn’t have a  license for all of these things, he’d better hire an attorney who does, because if you have a license and you break the law, you are in big doo-doo.

So, to end this perplexing tale, Time Magazine (June, 2022) informs us that the District Court of Appeals in California made a ruling on May 31st that, “Bumblebees can indeed be classified as fish for the purposes of being protected by the California Endangered Species Act.” Consequently, if you want catch a fish, get a license and buy a butterfly net.

Esther Blumenfeld

IT'S A PUZZLEMENT

“Sometimes I’m confused by what I think is really obvious. But what I think is really obvious obviously isn’t obvious.” (Michael Stipe, lead singer R.E.M.)

My problem is that I think a lot.  If I’d stop doing that, I’d probably not be so confused about what is happening around me. For instance, I find it confusing that gun owners don’t need a license to own a gun, because people are required to get a license to catch a fish. Trying to find an answer I re-read the Second Amendment of the Constitution, and now I get it! We have a well-trained Army, Navy, Marine Corp and Air Force, so we don’t have to worry about an uprising of fish.

On a simpler level of confusion—Question: In a cookbook, what’s the difference between, “Serves Four,” or “Four Servings?” Answer: (that I came up with) inviting four football players to dinner.

Here is probably the worst question someone can ask you— “So tell me, what do you think?” I have discovered that the least confusing way to handle that question is to not give an answer, but just smile. They will assume that you are a deep thinker. That is always better than saying, “The answer is crystal clear,” because Pawan Mishra suggests, “Isn’t life a collection of weird quizzes with no answers to half the questions?”  If a leader in finance and technology can say that, I don’t have to be so perplexed when my checkbook doesn’t balance.

Also, voting is now high on the bafflement meter.  It seems as if the mantra of many politicians these days is: “If you can’t convince the public—confuse them!” Then voting becomes so complicated that there are no longer any game rules in elections. Consequently, the fact that every citizen should be allowed the right to vote is often tossed to the winds of mistrust. Some people don’t want voting machines while others want to reject the U.S. mail-in votes, and others want to remove polling places. It is so confusing. Is there an answer?

Perhaps we should return to a vote by hand, but since the majority of people in the U.S. are right handed the lefties would have a justified case for the Supreme Court. I am guessing that the Supremes— in a vote of 6 to 3— would approve of the sticking out of tongues, one tongue for “Yes” and the forked tongue for “No.” Consequently, with the exception of the tongueless,  the “Ahhh’s” would win lickity spit.

Finally, to quote the paragon of virtue, Johnny Depp, “I try to stay in a constant state of confusion just because of the expression it leaves on my face.”  I don’t know much about Johnny Depp’s face, but I do know that confusion can also be a good thing when it leads to a clearer mind and to the truth— as long as we don’t confuse what we wish for— for what  really is.

Esther Blumenfeld

DIMINISHING RETURNS

This morning as I carried my bags of groceries into my apartment, I noticed that the bags seemed much lighter than usual. The boxes, cans and paper goods that I unpacked looked the same, but something had radically changed. Yikes! I had been attacked by Shrinkflation. I don’t know the name of the economist who came up with that term, but it’s now in the vernacular.

Shrinkflation is a sneaky way of hiding the cost of everyday food, drink and paper products without actually raising the price. Consequently, hundreds of items have shrunk. So what you now purchase might meet the needs of a Lilliputian. A case in point: Charmin Toilet Paper isn’t as charming as it used to be, because the original 650 sheets per roll now only contain about half of that amount. Even the Mega Rolls don’t have as many sheets as they used to and the sheets have gotten smaller. So, if you are, “Two Sheets to the Wind,” you are probably actually only “One Sheet to the Wind,” but that’s okay because your bottle of Vodka has probably also shrunk.

Even good old General Mills has shrunk its Family Sized Boxes of cereal by almost 10%.
Consumer advocate, Edgar Dworsky told the Washington Post, “Do we raise the price knowing the consumer will grumble, or do we give them a little bit less and accomplish the same thing? It’s easier to do the latter.”

Also, the folks who shop at Walmart hoping for better deals are also getting the shaft. Walmart Great Value Paper Towels dropped from 168 sheets per roll to 120, but the price stayed the same. And, if you want to get kissed by Hersheys Dark Chocolate Kisses, you’ll get 20 ounces less of romance for the same price.

Here’s my question: If you are paying the same for less doesn’t that mean that you are really paying more? Join me on a romp down The Yellow Brick Road. There’s got to be a Wizard down there somewhere.  

OKAY! There are less Wheat Thins in the same size “Reduced Fat” box. If I dunk some into a “Reduced Fat” smaller jar of Skippy Peanut Butter,” and the price of the food that I bought stays the same, but the size of the goods in the box gets smaller, Why haven’t I lost weight?

It’s a puzzlement.

Esther Blumenfeld

GETTING RENEWED

I rarely promise anything. However, I can promise that you will never hear someone say, “Oh, I just love to go to the DMV” (Department of Motor Vehicles.) Unfortunately, two years had passed since I last renewed my Vehicle Registration, and my little old Saturn needed an equipment inspection and emissions test before I could get my paperwork. Consequently, I unearthed and charged up my old GPS system to direct me to the facility. I know how to get there, but during the Pandemic, I had paid someone to run the gauntlet for me, and in two years some road topography had changed. Maybe not so much the roads, but many familiar landmarks were gone.

The facility opened at 8 a.m, so I left my apartment at 7:30 a.m. Reaching a big intersection,  I quickly realized that I was not in one of the three left-turn lanes, so I drove straight ahead and made a U-turn. Suddenly, two police cars—sirens blaring— roared up behind me. “Oh, My God!” had I made an illegal u-turn? I had visions of landing in jail instead of the DMV. The police raced past me, and I made my right turn. Now I was in the correct lane to make another right . A cultured voice from my ancient GPS said, “In a quarter mile, make a right turn at Pantano, the street I needed. However, the street split—one side going up a bridge over the street, and the other side making a right turn on Pantano.

I turned right at the stoplight. It wasn’t Pantano. Sooo—I made another U-turn.  This time it was illegal, but by now jail didn’t look so bad after all. Finally, I made the correct turn and drove several miles  until the cultured lady told me to turn right at the DMV sign. No problem! I had arrived and, miracle of miracles, I was ten minutes early. I pulled to the front of the entrance of the inspection gates. I was first in line! The gates were still blocked by a heavy metal chain, but it wasn’t time to open yet. I began to read my newspaper when I heard a tapping on the car window. I rolled it down, and a man said, “We aren’t lining up at the front of the building anymore. You have to line up at the back to get to the front. I drove around the building and saw a line of at least 25 cars ahead of me. They were lined up all the way into a busy street where once more I had to make a U-turn in order to get into line.

By now the outside temperature had turned to an uncomfortable 85 degrees. The line moved slowly and when I pulled close enough to see the entrance, I noticed that there were four examining stations, but only two of them were open. By now there were at least 20 cars lined up behind me. At that, I suddenly realized that the DMV would suck at least an hour out of my life! Two lines were formed, and I decided not to pull up behind the house trailer. Observing other drivers sitting in line was as much fun as attending a funeral. Then I saw a flashing sign offering a $1000.00 bonus for anyone signing up at the DMV. It didn’t say you had to work there. I was tempted,  but two other inspectors had arrived and the other two lanes opened up. I only waited twenty-five minutes more and arrived first in line.

The young inspector told me to get out of my car and stand in the shade. He didn’t have to ask me twice. I leapt out of the car clutching my $12.25 fee. I was so eager to pull out the money that I ripped the $10 bill in half. Pathetically,  I handed him two singles, a quarter and two halves of a $10.00 bill. A new experience for him. My little, old Saturn passed the test easily, and then I drove to another building to apply for my vehicle registration. I only stood in line for 10 minutes and all went well. The drive home was uneventful without even one U-turn.

Now I am waiting for someone to say,  “See you soon. I’m making a quick trip to the DMV.”


Esther Blumenfeld