Being ever the smart aleck, he replied, “About 50 minutes.”

“No,” I responded. “How long will it take until I am fixed; you know, healed; normal?”

I am not alone when it comes to asking that question. One of the first items we want checked off our “to do list of change” is a date specific that we can mark on our calendar alerting us to the face that – voila – goal achieved! Like a prisoner sentenced to hard labor, we want to know how long until we are free.

From a logical point of view, the process of getting from “here” to “there” is actually pretty exhilarating. We find out about ourselves. We discover what we’re capable of doing. Others compliment and admire us. Life is new; every sunrise provides the option for multiple new adventures, unwrapping more of whom we really are. It would seem that with so much to gain, we would rather linger luxuriously in the progression instead of charge hell-bent for leather to the other side.

So, what’s with the big rush?

I’m not naïve, I am more than aware that it takes work and is, at times, prickly; yet most of our goal-driven society touts reflexively, “anything worth having is worth working for.” If I want a good marriage, I will work for it. Raising healthy, happy children is certainly an effort at times. Advancing my career and maintaining my house require expending resources. Certainly the best ME possible is a worthy objective, and therefore stands to reason that it also is worth the elbow grease necessary to achieve it.

We might not always be keen on it, but we are not a people afraid of hard work. So that cannot be the reason why the sprint to the finish line. I believe we are in such a hurry to “get there” because we are terrified of waking up with the realization that we have “lost our motivation.”

Like the despondent lover, we plead, “Don’t go; please stay. I’ll be good. What will happen to me if you leave?” If we can arrive at the altar before being jilted by our fickle paramour, everything will be OK.

Being a student of change (aren’t we all?), I am enthralled by our choice of words. After all, words reflect our thoughts. Thoughts determine actions. Watch what you say, it could become your life. Therefore, when we say, “I’ve lost my motivation,” it presupposes that motivation is some foreign entity residing in a distant land. Yet, we are the source of our motivation. We gin it up, and we turn it off. We control it; no one else does. Others can inspire us, coerce us, or force us – but motivate? Not so much. (Ever try and “motivate” a lazy teen? Get my point?)

The premier adjustment on the road to stable, long-term change, is to accept that the locus of control – where decisions are made – is internal, not external. Sure, “stuff” happens, and luck (or fate) can be players. Yet, they are bit parts. I own my spotlight. Once I accept that, the only thing in my way is me.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

               It wasn’t much on the sex scenes, though sex figured prominently in the storylines.  There was no nudity, no kinky fetishes, and the violence was mainly fisticuffs save for the treatment of “nosey people”.  The villain was not making a lady suit, or asking them to play any bloody morality games.  It was interesting to take the movie apart in this way, and compare it to movies of today.  Perhaps the most scandalous plot related to Faye Dunaway’s character having a daughter who is also her sister.  We learn of this through dialogue and not in “memories”.  We do not see the act.

               In this age we are exposed to sex of any variety on an hourly basis.  Even mops and brooms have been sexualized.  When I saw Dennis Franz’ portly posterior on NYPD Blue some years back, I knew it was a different world.  Movies and programs are now geared to the gross, gory, morbid and freaky themes.  Each new phase portrays a new level of base animalistic activity.  On The Shield, a police officer is forced to perform oral sex on a male while being photographed.  Sons of Anarchy offers Katie Segal being gang-raped “from behind”.  Reality shows offer up the weird and creepy underbelly of life.   Violence of any imaginable type is readily available.   

               AMC runs Mad Men and true to the 1960’s, many are smoking.  The cigarette is used as a tool to set the era in this show.  Littered about the television are reports that movies featuring “smoking or holding of cigarettes or tobacco products” will be rated R (not that it really matters).  I guess those “G” movies with Bette Davis violently pretending to smoke; will soon have to be banned.  It seems odd that we can watch disembowelment on broadcast television, but smoking is to become taboo.  Tobacco has had a great deal to do with the birth and success of the nation.  It has its’ bad aspects as well.  Everyone knows that smoking is bad for you.  We allow the sex and drugs.  We show Dexter the serial killer as a hero of sorts.  Politicians call each other names, and compare each other to Nazis.  But smoking, oh no, we can’t see that.  It will encourage kids to smoke!  When teens start to disembowel each other, I’ll believe it.

               Certainly the marginal in society will be influenced by what they see.  But that is no reason to dwell in the darkness of our caves.  As a kid, I was allowed to have a 7oz beer when I wanted one.  Usually one was sufficient.  This is probably why I don’t have a drinking problem.  That which is forbidden is that which is pursued, in the mind of a teen.  Rebellion is a stage in life for most people.  Taking tobacco out of programs will not prevent someone lighting up.  Making them stand in the snow hasn’t worked!  So we tax them to death, before the cancer can get them.  Or we say that there is lost productivity or increased health costs.  Why smoking causes all of us to pay more for insurance.  However, actuaries will tell you that the majority of expense is caused by the needs of the elderly.  Won’t smokers die first, much earlier?

               What about alcohol, or skydiving for that matter?  Can we limit the risks by making them out of fashion, especially, at a time when a math teacher is shown “cooking meth” on a hit program.  Will we encourage the ostracism of those who don’t behave accordingly?  Will we have re-education camps for proper thinking?  How did that work out for the “demon rum”?

               All of this could sound like conspiracy or wild-eyed craziness.  But, isn’t ironic?  With all we allow, we are worried about smoking?  Who doesn’t know that it is bad for you?  Kids hear it their whole lives.  Do we really need to change the visual reality to affect a desired outcome?  Shouldn’t gratuitous violence and the gross be targeted first?  Maybe there would be less gang problems?  Talk about the slippery slope!  What’s next?  Isn’t it ironic?

Then I learned that sugar could help get you through sadness. Not only did I have to change my eating habits but I had to learn self control.

I went to two nutritionists trying to learn the secret of properly losing weight. The first one took me off sugar for a month. All sugar which included fruits, wine, and my favorite chocolate candy. It wasn’t as hard as I thought, but don’t get me wrong it  was hard. I learned to turn my head while others indulged in sugary treats or even bananas. A month and 14 pounds lost later I felt I could handle any food deprivation. Then something bad happened to a close friend, the sadness sat in and I lost the desire to try to live without sweets.

It wasn’t that I bought a whole cheesecake and ate it alone. Cheesecake would never be my choice to break a dietary fast. Besides being lactose intolerant I have never been one to just sit and stuff my face until I explode. I don’t like the painful aftermath of over-indulging. I just eat things I didn’t need, a habit that I had picked up as a lonely teen. After a few days of brownies and chocolate bars reality sets in and I come back to earth and to something normal. I am always thankful that I didn’t learn to turn to alcohol to get me through tough times.

Years later, after the pounds reappeared, I decided to try Weight Watchers. I didn’t like the original idea of public flagellation if you didn’t meet your goals but I did like their method of teaching one to loose weight. Moderation in everything made sense and helped me loose weight. I didn’t remain with them for long but I followed that little premise. One could have their cake and eat it too if one planned their food day correctly. It meant that I could have something sweet each day, nothing something sweet each hour.

Still sadness brings me back to sugar. Sadness is sour. It is vinegar to me. The dregs of sadness cannot be quenched with sweetness. The sweet is a temporary fix supplied in a moment of weakness. Weakness that appears because you are saddened by some incident, by some loss. The taste of dark chocolate on my tongue makes me smile. And if I eat only a small amount the sweetness is better than a drug. When we overeat or overindulge we cannot get the full effect of the food or drink we are longing for. It is really too much of a good thing. And in the end you cannot remember what that good thing tasted like. But just a hint of sweetness for me pulls me up and reminds me of happier things and happier times. Would I want to eat a whole pound of dark chocolate to suppress the sadness flowing through me? I think not. After the first few pieces the thrill is gone. The taste of joy is a memory.

My learning self control has been one of the best things that ever happened to me. A few years back I became the keeper of the sweets in the office. Besides the cases of wine that I store in the cabinet near me I have several different kinds of candy and cookies year round. Sometimes I eat a serving a day, sometimes I don’t touch them. When I am saddened by life or the world as a whole I look at my options in the cabinet, make one and indulge. I have become pretty good about walking away. My thoughts turn to not being able to fit in my clothes and having to spend money I don’t have to purchase newer, larger ones. My thoughts turn to having too much to eat when I don’t need it, poverty in other countries and the fact that after a while the sweetness is gone and the sweets have not taste.

Still it is not easy. Learning of something sad last night I dreamed of chocolate croissants. This morning I made sure not to pass a bakery or any place that might have sold something that was large and sweet. The sadness is still in me but I am not ready for the sweet. Sometimes it is best to let your soul marinate in pain until you understand it. Then the reward of the sweet being chocolate, a beer or a movie you long to see, will be that much tastier.

But there is nothing like the sweet to make your life smile.

Book Cover

Yesterday morning at approximately 2 a.m., I officially finished my first, full-length novel, The Gaslight Journal.

Begun back sometime in 2001, this book was originally a fluke of an idea.  Because I’ve said previously that I had no confidence in my writing, I did not work seriously at the thoughts of ever finishing this book, let alone trying to shop it around for either a publisher, or to make available as a Kindle title, which I plan to do.  I am shooting for an early to mid-November release date, hyping the publicity for Christmas.

It was around this time that I also joined an online writing group on Usenet.  That group of people that I met there, taught me a lot about life, growing up, the value of friendships of people you’ve never met, and how with just a little relentless encouragement and a whole lot of craft, I was the only one holding me back from doing this.  Some of those people–Steve W., Barry A., Joe K., Alaric M., Bob W., and Amanda T., are still close friends and confidants to this day.  To be honest, I have no idea where I would be in all this, if it hadn’t been for their kind hearts, and taskmaster discipline.

I highly encourage you to find a good, active online or face-to-face writing group.  The benefits of an online group, are that it’s easy to post excerpts or short stories for critique, and many, many people have the benefit of making comment, so you get many varying POVs.  Plus, my favourite, being able to post stories, comment and commiserate, all without leaving your chair or changing from your peejays.

The downside of a group of this nature, is that you generally have to wade through several timezones before you get an answer, sometimes waiting for days or even weeks in some cases, as people are extremely busy and the level of posting is in high volume.  The other drawback is that because each poster is in equal probability an amateur as well as a published, experienced author, you never know, without trial and error, if the advice you receive will truly work for you.

The pros of seeking out a face-to-face writing group, inherently, are the same as an online group:  you learn how to give–by mere repetition and discussion–effective constructive critiques, and you get them in return, which, since true writing is only in the RE-writing, will only make you a better writer.  You also have that immediacy of advice, because once you read your excerpt, you then have the luxury of hearing its immediate affect on those listening, and they can offer comment while the work is still fresh in their mind, and they haven’t had an ample amount of time to think about it, which often happens in online groups–people have lives to live between the time they read your story, and the time they have to comment, so opinions are sometimes in jeopardy of changing in that time, and you just don’t have the access to those visceral, gut-wrenching opinions.

The downside of this sort of group, is that you have to get dressed before you leave the house.  Oh, and you have a specified time to meet each and every week, rain or shine.  You can’t just sit back in your cozy armchair if the snow is too deep and you don’t feel like reading Shteeve’s latest tome until in the morning.

As you can see, both groups have benefits and both have their drawbacks.  As to which one will work better in your situation is entirely up to you, but the important and only thing is, that you find one and become an active part of it.  Those who offer critiques and read our stories are an integral part of the writing process.  Even if your average reader does not know how to place into words why your story sucks, if it’s not polished and snazzed up, is rife with misspellings, grammatical errors and typos, he will simply know it does, and that will be more than enough to kill your sales, because avid bibliophiles TALK.

Now that my own group disbanned about a year ago, I am also, in want of a new, constructive and active group, because I’m not nearly done writing–I’m just getting started!

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“Why is my marriage a mess?” “How come I weigh so much?” “Will I ever save enough to retire?” These are all questions a life-contractor might ask when examining a “dwelling” that appears not at all as the architect envisioned.

Nonetheless, each structure is built to our exacting specifications. Granted, sometimes “stuff” outside of our control happens. Earthquakes, illness, even political forces, can interfere with well-developed plans. Yet, the underlying truth for the vast majority of us is that the vast majority of time, we are where we are because of what we have done so far. Want to live differently? Act differently. New materials and a modernization might be the order of the day.

It seems like a simple solution. Yet the unhappy truth is that to accomplish that also takes planning. It is essential that we examine each and every brick; come to a decision as to whether or not it’s functional, as well as which others rely upon it for their support. Then, and only then, can we choose whether we simply demolish it or must substitute it with another. Of course, we can even retain some exactly where they rest.

Unfortunately, too often, we take the tact of a demolitionist and attempt to simply “start over.” That’s folly, oft-time guaranteed to fail, as we cannot just knock everything over and start anew. Those bricks labeled “how I treat my family” or “what I do for a living” are cemented to those emblazoned, “sit rather than walk,” “eat to handle stress,” and “chips instead of vegetables.” Starting from scratch is the metaphorical option of being homeless. I might not like where I live, but it beats the street. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Let’s presume however, that we take a more long-term line of attack and begin the careful disassembly and future reassembly. There is yet that other level: that pesky slab upon which everything rests. If we erect the most magnificent mansion rooted in a plot of sand, further problems are ensured. In this cautionary fable, that foundation consists of thoughts and feelings. Our actions, the bricks, are built upon inextricably intertwined thoughts and feelings. Should they not be able to direct well our actions, we shall yet again be housed in a hovel.

This begs an urgent question: Do we control our thoughts and feelings or do they control us? In effect, are we victims to the synaptic firings and hormone-driven changes of affect; or do we create them to serve our needs? Who is the master — and who is servant?

If we believe that we have little or no control over what enters our consciousness — in effect, they just “happen” — we are forever at the whim of those electrical impulses and influences. Any plan at any time can be immediately disrupted by seemingly random fluctuations pulsing though our system.

Conversely, if we can accept that our thoughts and our feelings can be developed, guided, molded, and in some cases, even controlled; we are given the most powerful tools imaginable. With those in the toolbox, there is no limit as to what we can construct.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

I often sleep with the television on.  For some it is a fan, but my TV is hardly ever off.  That is not to say that I am watching it.  It is on when I am not at home.  I have valid reasons for all of this.  I will avoid the temptation to explain them all.  The knot hole broadcasts 24/7 365 into a large room.  I do sometimes find something to be interested in and watch it.  But most of the time is like now; and there is a stupid movie on while I write this, and I can’t tell you what it is.  I don’t care.  Perhaps if I changed the channel, my writing would suffer.  But as you listen you hear a great many things, some of them repeatedly.  I have compiled a list of crap I no longer wish to hear about: acid reflux, catheters, tampons, car insurance, erectile dysfunction, K-Y jelly, and the disgusting but fast list of drug side effects.  This is by no means all inclusive! 

I’m not a big fan of pop culture today.  Everything is infused with hip-hop, pants on the ground, and sex-sex – sex.  I’m more of the Motown, 70’s R&B or Rock N Roll type.  But then the TV keeps up with me too.  All of the sudden it is a bladder control ad set to a disco tune.  Something for everyone I suppose.  I listen to the news sometimes.  It is fun to watch them argue over a bit of nothing while the town burns.  The politicians trying to get on the right side of “the people”, is akin to HGTV programming.  On that channel, you can watch people saying things like “paint over that beautiful 150 year old cherry trim…it will freshen it up” and the best is when the realtor says “my buyers are looking for granite countertops blah blah…”  The politicos listen to pollsters/realtors to find out what BS the “buyers” want.  The older you get, the less you want to hear.  Most of the bull, you have heard many times before.  And I couldn’t care less about granite countertops…

I’m tired of people telling me what to do.  If it isn’t a shiny face on TV, it is one in person.  I listen to other people.  I see different people all day.  Some I really like, some not so much…  Often, I come out better when I just listen to myself.  When I listen to advice, problems arise, and the results suffer.  There are a few exceptions though.  I’ll keep them private as they are too busy giving me good advice.  The TV is just like this.  Most of the channels stink.  You may have 300, but only watch 6 or 7 and they all insist on telling me about text messaging and weight loss.

Then there is the religion TV.  I am a Christian.  Joyce Meyer is great.  But some of this stuff is unreal!  As I slept one night, I became awake and listened to the faint television in the background.  The man was saying that the resurrection had paid our ticket to heaven if we had done our part, and we would need it soon.  Our President was the antichrist….blah blah woof woof.  Not a really big fan of Barry.  But I don’t think Satan impregnated his mother.

This green and global warming crap has me too.  If the world ends in 2012 as some say, who gives a whit what the temperature will be in 2250?  Besides, all that oxygen comes from those poison eating…trees!  Plant a tree, and I’ll keep my $400 electric bill.  I can barely afford to pay that!  Hey, maybe I should shut off that TV…. After thinking about all of this noise, perhaps we should consider what programming, and what people, we allow nesting in our ear….

Most of the women I heard of who got up and left in the middle of the night were seething most of the evening before they departed. They were waiting for an apology- or one they could believe. They were hoping he would see things their way- or at least admit they were wrong. These unrealistic expectations often end with couples sleep back to back or pretend to sleep.

But when he starts snoring, when it becomes evident that he doesn’t care enough to stay awake and fight or at least be angry, she decides to teach him a lesson and simply leave. What she takes doesn’t depend of what she bought to the home of their relationship. It really depends on how long she is going to teach him a lesson by being gone.

Let me say that I thought about doing this once about 34 years ago when my husband of a few months was spending most of his time watching sports instead of spending time with me. Then I thought, why the hell should I leave? I put a lot into this relationship and I won’t walk away without a fight or finding out what is wrong. So I woke him up. And that was no easy task since he was comfortably sleeping after hours of basketball and beer. We talked things out but all the while I was thinking about what I would pack in my little suitcase if I left.

And in the middle of the night it has to be a small suitcase. I learned that from a woman who left her husband a few times. She said you leave behind things that remind him of what he is missing with you gone.

She hung the nightie that always got his attention on the bathroom door where he would see it every time he went to take a leak.

She left the ingredients for his favorite meal in the fridge so he would think about the mouth watering meal when he reached in for a beer.

She took all the expensive jewelry he gave her, the bathing suit she had recently tried on before him for the vacation they were to take in a few weeks, her favorite cocktail dress and the dress she swore she would only wear for him.

She also left a tear stained note saying not to try to find her (or course he was supposed to try to find her, that was part of the deal) and that he hurt her badly (code for the make up gift and eventually make-up sex must be terrific).

Of course the young woman I overheard discussing the art of leaving her man sent him a text message as she took a cab to her girlfriends house. A girlfriend she knew he didn’t like. A girlfriend that was the same size so that she would be able to borrow clothes. She didn’t answer her cell phone and she didn’t respond to her text messages for several hours. On the bus the issue of seeing him again had not been resolved. She was waiting for the apology/gift/whatever.

But here is my thought on all of this relationship malarkey: why play this game? One of my younger female friends left her boyfriend because he was constantly cheating on her. When  she decided to talk it out a few days later she learned that he had had packed up her things and left them with the doorman. Looking through her belongings she discovered that several of her designer dresses and shoes were missing. Probably passed on the woman (or women) he had cheated with.

So I suggest to any young woman deciding to ‘teach’ her man a lesson by leaving- don’t go. Talk it out, try to work it out and then if that doesn’t work take everything you won’t and don’t come back. Leaving in the middle of the night is not a realistic way to solve problems, it can create more. There is always the possibility that when you return things will be worse than before. And the first thing you might notice is the thrill of the romance is gone.

Yes, there are “acts of God.” Philosophically, one might even accept fate or destiny as insurmountable barriers. Yet, aside from those, the immense majority of people living lives of quiet desperation reside there because of what’s going on in their minds more than on our planet. With credit to Walt Kelly, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” We – not others – are more times than not, our worst adversaries.

I mean this not in a condescending, judgmental manner, as one might hear from no-nonsense hyper-achievers, “Just pull yourself up from the bootstraps, suck it in, and get it done. Don’t be such a wimp!” One cannot change years of brain wave patterns in the same manner in which he switches on or off a light. Negative thoughts today – click – positive henceforth. My objective today is also not designed to illustrate how messed up we are; I don’t think that’s true, we’re all doing the best we know how to do.

With appropriate disclaimers admitted, if we accept that we are standing in our own way, it begs the question, “Why would we do that?” Why do we NOT reach further, dream larger, and believe better?

The primary answer is: Fear; Fear of Success, and its dastardly sibling, Fear of Failure.

These concepts are tossed about often than a well-worn basketball in a high school gym, yet rarely do we take the time to understand the difference between the two. For in doing so, we might be able to get past them.

Usually, Fear of Success is an apprehension that achieving one’s goals could generate future events unforeseen or out of one’s control and we won’t know what to do with them. For example, if I lose weight, members of the opposite sex might look at me differently. I might need to deal with flirting, or even sexual tensions, that – until now – have been kept at bay by the extra layers in which I can (literally and figuratively) hide. Another illustration could be that I worry friends who currently socialize with me around food (such as going out to lunch) might no longer feel comfortable doing so. What will we do then? Will I lose friendships? Will I become lonely?

Fear of Success’s baseline concern is I might not like the way things are right now, but at least I know how to handle them. Change them and it could be worse.

Fear of Failure, far more common, is being scared that my goals are really just empty pipe dreams. The regret in attempting it – and failing – would be so much more devastating than the conditions in which I now find myself, that I’d rather just stay put. In other words, “If I don’t do anything, I can’t fail and therefore, I won’t be disappointed. As it stands currently, at least I have my fantasy to comfort me. I am unwilling to risk those.”

Fear is a normal, sometimes even healthy, emotion. Like a fortress it can keep out what might harm us – or, as a cage, it can prevent us from getting what we want.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

If you are not aware Simon the Cyrenian was the black man who carried the Cross for Jesus part of the way to his his Crucifixion. As an innocent grade school student unaware of race I thought what he did was honorable. He was a good Christian man that helped the son of God before he died. I was sure Simon went to heaven for the selfless deed because that’s how I was taught in Catholic school. You do the right thing and you are rewarded with heaven.

But doing the right thing should not make you feel inferior. What if the right thing has other people calling you Uncle Tom or slave? What if the right thing has nothing to do with the color of one’s skin but the pain of being human?

Lots of time black people trying to make it in this world get criticized for being too smart or trying to be white. And whites are chastised for being too sympathetic to the black cause. But there really is no cause- there is only humanity. If I see a white child running into the street I will go after the child so that it won’t die. There is a part of me that wonders why the mother is standing on the corner paying attention to her Gucci purse or talking on the cell phone. I might even think this is not something black mothers do. But thinking that and doing the right thing are two different things.

I have heard teens make fun of one another after doing the right thing. I have heard “I wouldn’t give my seat to that old m….f…I paid for mine let him stand.” That was a white boy talking to his friends when an old man got on the train and made his way to the middle of the car with his cane while a young black woman got up and gave him her seat.  I have seen a young black woman help an old white lady off the bus and the old woman didn’t even say thank you. Perhaps her feelings and fears were working overtime or she came from that generation that didn’t believe they had to say thank you to a person of color who helped them.

I have seen a lot of good that transcends race and I wish we could forget about it.

Black people know that there are some whites who use the ‘n’ word at home or with their friends the same way blacks talk about what they perceive as misdeeds in whites. It is human nature and it is cultural. But when people need help race, unkind words, and old hatreds should not stand in the way.

I will not put Cullen’s poem here. Look for it, share it with your friends. And in response to this post do not put it in your response. When others look up his works they may discover a little history that has been suppressed because of the color of his skin.

This is not about Countee Cullen. This is about forgetting about race when it is necessary. I will not let you die if it is within my power simply because your ancestors killed mine. My skin is black and I am proud to always do the right thing regardless of color.

Last year and years before I made potato salad as well as cole slaw and sliced cucumber and tomato salad to go with our meat offerings. It was the last time I decided to do that. Although I want my guests to feel at home, I want it to be a feeling that they are at MY home. we eat less red meat and carbs than most families in the States. None complain about not getting a balanced meal when they come here. They complain about having enough junk food. I wish more people had that to complain about that when they eat out.  Even in celebrations we need to cut back on the wrong things. We think the 4th is an excuse to overeat. It is something we should all stop doing.

Tomorrow is the official holiday. But many people have already cooked out on Saturday or gone to cookouts where the onion green thing on their plate was pickle relish. Take the time to evaluate what you are eating before you feel your belly. The weight gain, heat burn and even possible heart attack you might have after overindulging is not worth it. Food can be goo without hurting you. You just have t pick the right ones.

Let’s put this in perspective. When the baby boomers started being born shortly after World War II, the entire population inhabiting this third rock from the sun was 2.3 billion. Therefore, if we lived in 1947, and we were facing this same predicament, every single, solitary, person would need to be on a diet.

While we’re playing “interesting facts to quote at cocktail parties,” let me toss you another: NOBODY diets to lose weight.

Huh?

Anybody who has ever tried to trim a pound from a pudgy mid-section, whether by changing the way she eats or by increasing her exercise level (or both), has not embarked upon that path to weigh a certain number or to drop X pounds. She launched into the process to achieve the BENEFITS that the weight loss will provide. Lifestyle change – in this case eating healthier – is simply the vehicle she has chosen to obtain an improved life; henceforth referred to as the “benefit.”

Moreover, how she chooses to define “better” is up to her: healthier, happier, more attractive, self-confident, more active, or anything else that tickles her fancy. But the bottom line remains that weight loss unto itself is not what drove the change, the results of it set the motion forward.

It might seem like we’re picking nits, but the cool thing about understanding benefits is that we can see them almost immediately, and that’s inspiring. However, waiting for the scale’s number to drop can appear to take forever, making the process feel much worse and more difficult than necessary. Restated, if I focus on benefits, the effort it’s taking to lose weight seems lessened.

For example, even if I am just starting my diet today, several benefits kick in even before one ounce has been lost. There is a sense of relief about overcoming procrastination, pride for moving forward on a goal, and my energy will probably spike due to the healthier combination of foods I’m now consuming. Conversely, if my sole measurement of success is a number on a scale, there’s one long road to hoe before I get any strokes from the process.

If I focus on the benefits received, which are plenty; rather than the effort it requires, which in reality is not really that much; not only will the end results be the same, but life will most likely be more rewarding and fun. Dare I say it: yet another benefit of being healthy.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

I had never sunbathed in my life or seen the need to. I was black and had been raised to walk in the sun without sunscreen, using an umbrella to shade me from the heat only on the hottest of days. But my sister freshmen and I decided that there was one way to get rid of those unwanted on our roof. I would start sunbathing with them and we would see what happened.

Less than ten minutes after I stripped to my lily white undies the crowd started to thin out. When I pulled back the platinum band of the diamond wristwatch my grandfather had given me four years earlier and said: “Oh look. I’m browner already,”  and a pale white friend said “You are so lucky” more girls left. They never returned and I never cared. I did this more for my dorm than myself, but I after doing it I understood race and color much better. I wasn’t supposed to have diamonds and I wasn’t supposed to sit in the sun.

Back then we didn’t know much about skin cancer but we knew a lot about racism. Being black was perceived as being ignorant and probably poor. Anything like jewels or a fancy car other than a Cadillac meant something most whites could not fathom: blacks could actually be equal. I often confessed to my friends both black and white that I didn’t understand how you could hate blacks but long for their skin color.  White girls hated to be pale in the summer when once their ancestors never ventured out of the shade if possible. These girls of the 70s dyed their hair very blond and wanted their skin to be very brown- as brown as mine. Perhaps they wanted to look exotic, perhaps they wanted to appear as if they had just come from some far away place on vacation instead of a classroom on the edge of Greensboro, North Carolina. They just didn’t want me to be part of the reality of the fantasy- I was born with the tan they longed for.

Over the years I have realized that I liked being in the water and the sun. People no longer look at me as an anomaly when I pile on SPF 30 to 70 and sit in the sun at the pool or on the beach for a few hours. Black people get skin cancer too and I don’t want to be one of them. What I want is an explanation of why it is good to be ‘colored’ three months out the year or if you vacation in the winter. Why is the color of your summer skin more important than the colors you fight against including in the melting pot of your nation?

Often I see women and men who have turned to leather from too much tanning. They have aged improperly but think they have captured youth with their darkened skin. Still they want to know why I am on the beach reading and not under an umbrella and why I would want to get a tan. A woman actually asked me once “Don’t you think you’re dark enough?” What a question to ask ME while she was trying to get four shades darker. My reply was a curt: “Do you think you area white enough?” And I continued to read my book but in great anger.

While it is stupid to sit in the sun and weather your skin for cosmetic reasons it is even dumber to decide that your desire to add color to your skin still makes and keeps you better than those born with the brown you want. You know the darkness will fade away as the fall turns into winter. You also know that people like me trying to get their golden summer hue on top of their already permanent tan will never be able to get back to basic white.

For the most part I have stopped sitting in the sun on the beaches without umbrellas. I get darker in the sun when I walk down the street so I wear sunscreen everyday- as we are now learning everyone should. Up on that roof in 1970 we used baby oil to cook ourselves darker. My friends got brown and I turned brownie chocolate brown. I haven’t heard from those women in years but I wonder how many of them have had bouts with skin cancer. Each sunny day I see people on the grass in the parks, their faces turned to the sun and I wonder when they get up to go home will their racial feelings change with their color.

What’s a good experiment for that?

Sure enough, literally smack-dab in the center of the terminal is an enclosed, glass-walled chamber where smokers light up and puff away to their heart’s content. (That’s probably a bad choice of expressions in light of the activity we’re discussing.) What struck me was that through the grey misted air, they appeared as caged zoo animals, pacing in their restricted area, engaging in behaviors not accepted by the reminder of the population, while kept at a safe distance from those they could harm upon accidental release.

I found the whole thing to be incredibly sad.

Let me head off the armies of hacking militant, wheezing smokers who, even before they have finished reading this piece, are racing to computers to fire off angry missives about how I am insulting them. My comments are not as much levied at those who have chosen to engage in this habit as much as at the society that determines what is appropriate and what is not. Mores change and smoking, once considered “the cat’s meow,” is now considered gauche, existing in a strange societal limbo – scorned yet legal.

I am allergic to tobacco smoke. Moreover, having previously lived with a smoker, the stench that permeated and saturated everything from clothing to carpeting invoked regularly my gag reflex. So, I’m A-OK with the act being isolated. Yet, what is not tolerable to me is that it appears that we – the “Proper Members of Society” – are forever judging others in a misguided effort to feel better about ourselves, while ignoring our own annoying foibles.

Civility’s spotlight, although not shifting from the nicotine user, has lately expanded to include the overweight. As with users of cigarettes, behind their backs, we shake our heads and whisper to our “normal” friends, “It’s a shame that they don’t take care of themselves. I’d never let myself look like that.” We wag our fingers and click our tongues, satisfied that we are “better than that.”

It’s probably human nature to try and elevate oneself by putting down others. I know in my lesser moments that I am not immune. However, it seems that each and everyone of us has habits of which we would not want exposed to bright sunlight. Creating new sub-classes determined by what one eats or smokes is divisive, and we’ve got plenty of that going around.

I’ve got bad habits. You do too. It’s not a reflection of self-worth; it is a method by which each of us is trying to make it through the day without collapsing under the weight of its stress. I’m not advocating abandoning personal responsibility and “let it all hang out;” quite the contrary. The process of growth is the cycle of “identify, adjust, and modify.” It seems if each of us spent a tad more energy striving to be an example instead of a judge, it could alter the atmosphere just enough that we wouldn’t need a cigarette – or bag of chips – quite as often.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

True all taxes are a big pain. The commercial fills a grocery cart with sodas, vitamin waters, bottled coffee drinks, drink mixes and juice drinks and says this new tax would cost the consumer $8 a cart in increased taxes. The problem as I see it is the government telling New Yorkers what they can eat. The items are not really needed for a healthy diet. In fact most of those items contain additives and chemicals that over a period of time can be harmful. These things are consumed on a regular basis by an addicted society of people who want to have their cake and eat it too.

Too many mornings I have walked down the street seeing children sipping soda and eating chips for breakfast. Whatever happened to oatmeal and milk? What happened to real juice? Are parents too lazy or too busy to give their kids what they need? If we started cooking things with nutrition we wouldn’t care that things we don’t need cost too much.

Growing up in Atlanta, we always had Coca Cola in the house. The product was packaged there and is still a mainstay of Southern Living. Sometimes it is hard to find a Pepsi in that city. But while we had the soda we did not drink it daily. We had milk, orange juice and apple juice. When we sat down for most family dinners we had water or iced tea. Kool-Aid was a rarity, something for a special kids occasion. My parents didn’t like the taste of it and we didn’t want it unless it was loaded with sugar.

That is the biggest problem with this grocery basket of overpriced drinks- most are full of sugar. The vitamin water is something most people drink before working out and it contains more calories than people think. A bottle has two servings. Naturally most people think it’s healthy and don’t read the labels. Juice drinks contain a portion of juice, the rest is water sugar and things I can’t pronounce. And to make matters worse, most people are addicted to sodas. Some have more caffeine than coffee.

Some years ago I read a report about why 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor and beer were popular in poor neighborhoods. It was an affordable high. Companies knew this and placed more advertisements as well as more cases of the drinks in these neighborhoods. With most of Harlem filled with poor people stores cater to what they can afford. Sodas and juice drinks fill the shelves of the small stores I pass each day. It is required for the area.

But it is not needed to survive. I don’t think Governor Patterson is trying to help anyone’s diet but it would aid in the overweight problem if people didn’t buy these drinks. The thing is the tax is going to be felt more by those who need these affordable highs more than others.

Perhaps the makers of these drinks are the ones behind this campaign to stop the taxes. It is a possibility that some people would see the error of their ways if they had to make decisions to cut back on drinks they didn’t need. It will be hard to stop kids from drinking Kool-Aid when that’s all they have ever known as an enjoyable beverage. All they will be able to afford is water. And from what I understand most people don’t get enough of that.

Unfortunately it makes sense to stop selling these items altogether but this is a nation addicted to what it wants. Even those who can’t afford what they want have rights and to stop making and selling these bits of happiness would be wrong. But we are a nation plagued with obesity. We have schools where kids don’t get any physical education. We have people who spend their days and nights sitting behind computers and eating fast food instead of sitting down to a hot cooked and healthy meal. Somebody needs to straighten us out and Patterson’s idea may not be the best but what if it is a start? Isn’t it time to decide that real food is more important than real junk?

What a lovely, personal gift, I thought. Then something else came to mind. My mother didn’t do things like this when we were little. My mother never let her star shine while my father was alive. It was the way of her generation.

At almost 85 my mother is still an artist. Or maybe I should say she has become more artistic than she ever was. My father was an award winning journalist, a published poet and a popular painter. When I was growing up my mother was my mother: an accountant, great cook and beautiful. My father got all the praises, even for his choice for a wife. More than once I heard people praise my mother’s beauty to him. No one ever said more than our house was comfortable and welcoming and the children were well mannered and lovely to my mother. I never saw any resentment in her eyes. What I did see was pride that my father was so good at what he did. This was her well known husband that people called with questions about Atlanta’s history or the Civil Rights Movement. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s  that I started noticing little rumbles of  something I can only describe as my mother being disgusted with the facade she had to wear for her generation. She longed for her 15 minutes and she didn’t want it to be because of my dad. She had done things herself. My generation of women did not hide behind their men, we were proud to show our own and my mother was watching.

I don’t know if she volunteered the information of if I asked but somehow I learned that my mother met my father at a poetry club in college. She didn’t stop writing, in fact she wrote a poem that was sent to Carl Sandburg who praised her for it. What she did was start promoting her husband-to-be. It was the way of her generation. Langston Hughes was coming to speak at their college and my mother sent him some of my father’s poems in advance. She didn’t tell my dad this until the day Hughes was to arrive. The great poet said, upon meeting my father, that his work was nice and that was it. My father was angry that Hughes never made an attempt to help him or anyone else at the school since someone had helped put Hughes on the poetic map. But my mother didn’t care, my father was going to be famous and she was his biggest fan.

The moment my father retired from the newspaper was the moment my mother decided to start being more creative. She had always done little things that we thought interesting around the house that made it beautiful but with dad retiring she decided that she was ready to let her star shine. She started a business where she created things like gift baskets and boxes, book marks with sayings and, believe it or not (and this was a big, big seller in the South) prayer rocks. She didn’t charge market rates and she was constantly busy, the house overflowing with things she needed to work. When my dad got sick she stopped to dedicate herself to his care full time. Then after he died she started her work again. Creating corsages out of dollars, making money trees for graduation presents, making diaper cakes for baby showers. And now my gift cards.

Had my mother lived in my generation she would have had a little storefront and a profitable online business that swept the country. Her ideas would have made it to catalogs and magazines. Imagine how much she could have made at conventions from her prayer rocks.

But that was not how life was supposed to be for her. She must have seen change coming because she made sure that each of her daughters knew how to be self sufficiant. You could marry for love and to make a good relationship but it had to be with someone who accepted that you had as much to offer as they did. My sisters and I always had jobs and always did what we wanted as far as work and career was concerned. It was the lesson we learned from my mother’s generation. A lesson called what not to do or be.

As far as I am concerned my mother is a Superwoman. She was dedicated to her husband and children but not to hold on to them. She wanted all four of us to have lives of our earn and not depend on someone else to be happy. She watched women her age suffer and waste away not knowing what to do when their man died. But she also has friends in their 80s who led full lives and are busy as ever. The one thing they got from years of waiting on and standing behind men was the strength to do a lot of things at one time. Not so much multi tasking as just being a woman.

The gift from my mother is so beautiful, but not as beautiful as all her life lessons and talent she gave me. My father did confess that my mother was quite talented when I was a little girl and snuck and showed me a poem she wrote to me before I, her first child, was born. He acted as if she would be embarrassed for me to know that she possessed such talent. But years later he had a picture of three year old me and my mom framed with the poem attached. It is in the center of the wall in the den, the most important place of honor. I think perhaps my father knew that my mother was letting him shine when she could. However I know that even with him gone from this firmament they made the brightest star in the heaven because they had each other.

That’s a lesson I loved learning.

What did I know about investment? I’d been saving up for a car, but okay. If they said so.

I ended up with two very nice, heavy boxes filled with any kind of silver serving utensil you could ever dream of. I even have an Angel Food Cake slicer. I can’t even identify some of them, actually. Sadly, one of my wooden handled salad spoons split, but when I reason that the spoon was probably close to 150 years old, I can’t really complain. Dwayne’ll glue it. He’s good like that.

He’s also good at practicality. When we moved out here, many extraneous things got packed into wherever. The two boxes of silver were tucked under the stairs. The other day, he came home and said we should break out the silver and start using it.

“But honey!” said I, aghast. “That’s for special occasions!”

“Which are happening … when?” he asked.

What do you know? The silver fit perfectly into the dishwasher, along with our good (wedding gifts) china. Sadly, we no longer have our crystal wine glasses because they shattered somewhere along the way, but the rest is really quite … spiffy, if I do say so myself.

Got me to thinking. What else do I pack away for special occasions? Well, I have a number of books that I want to read, when I finally finish whatever I’m reading. I’d like to go to Europe, but there’s a practical (financial) reason that hasn’t happened. I’d like to stay up late and watch more movies. I’d like to spend a night or two listening to celtic bands in pubs (sorry, Dwayne). I’d love to lose some weight – but let’s just ignore that one for now.

Mostly, I’m pretty good about doing exactly what I want. Have I mentioned how spoiled I am? (thank you, honey)

But it also got me thinking about what some of my friends are up to. In particular, I have a friend who packed up her mom and her son, and traveled here from Scotland, to improve (she hoped) their lives. That takes serious nerve. When the government finally allowed her to make an income, she wasn’t sure what to do, and settled for the typical working-in-retail route, which most of us have done at one point or another. But while she did that, she’d pop in occasionally and style my family’s hair. She loves doing hair. She used to do that in Scotland. Dwayne pointed out that she could be saving gas and energy (her own) if she gave up the day job and opened her own salon.

But how do you do that? How do you step into the unknown and trust that things will work out? How do you reach into that hidden box of valuables and say “Okay. Now it’s time to use this”?

She’s done it, and is having a wonderful time, albeit a busy one. And I say that’s a fantastic reason to use the good china.

What about all those people who hear that I’ve written a few books and say “Oh, I’d love to write a book.” Really? What are you waiting for? Do you think I knew what I was doing when I started? Nope. Not a thing. Do you think I started off writing obsessively? Nope. That’s kind of recent. Set up all by yourself and write/type/dictate for ten minutes a day, if that’s all you can spare. It’ll start to take shape and you’ll be amazed. Another reason to use the china.

My daughter made a new friend today. China time!

I think the answer is taking that one gigantic step of faith. It could go well, or it could fail. As long as you’re not discussing something life-threatening, I say go for it.

Our world is so full of hopes and dreams that we never get around to living them. Life is quick, and this is the only one we’re sure of getting. Have you always wanted to paint but it’s an expensive hobby? Check out basic water colours at the loonie store first. Have you always wanted to learn the piano? (oops. that’s a plug, because I’m currently looking for students) Do you wonder what that old friend is up to late? Look her up and ask her. Do you wish your bedroom was a different colour? Have you always wondered what that really expensive store was like inside? Just do it. Don’t wait.

You spend your life wishing, and before long, life is done. What happens to all those wishes when you’re gone? They’re gone. They go unfulfilled and dissolve into nothing. How sad!

So break out the good china. Drink an expensive bottle of wine. Try a new food. Get out and taste those dreams. Does someone you’ve never met look interesting? Go introduce yourself. Maybe, if you’re really brave, move to a totally new place, where you know no one and adventure/experiences wait for you to discover them. Why wait?

Hey! I just finished a new blog. Good for me. Time for the china.

“What do you mean, ”oops”? Nothing good ever starts with ‘oops’.”

“Really? I’m not sure about that. ‘Oops’ means I made a mistake.”

“I know what it means; I’m not stupid. But it never leads anywhere good.”

“I don’t agree.”

“OK, how ’bout this? I was at the dentist a few months ago. I was getting a tooth pulled…”

“Ouch; that’s not fun.”

“No, it’s not. So, they’ve got me in that chair that looks like something from the Spanish Inquisition. My mouth is numb, I’m drooling like a one-year old – ”

“Sounds attractive.”

“Anyway… They have the chair leaning way back, the light is in my eyes, I’ve got one of those rubber things in my mouth – what do you call ‘em?”

“Dental dam.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a dental dam in my mouth and the dentist is yanking and pulling on my tooth. Suddenly the tooth pops loose, the dentist loses his grip, I hear him say, ‘oops;’ and before you know it, he’s got me out of the chair, flipped over, patting me on the back like he’s burping a baby.”

“Wow! What happened?”

“Apparently, he dropped the tooth into my throat.”

“Really? Was it dangerous?”

“Well, he was concerned that it could get in my lungs. But it didn’t; apparently I swallowed it.”

“So everything came out OK in the end?”

“Is that meant to be cute?”

“No, maybe I worded it poorly, but I meant what I said.”

“Yeah, sure, I was fine.”

“So ‘oops’ was a good thing then.”

“No, it was a bad thing. He made a mistake. It could have had terrible results.”

“But, it didn’t, because he saw that he made a mistake, and corrected for it real quickly. Let’s say, he didn’t admit the mistake and just pretended that he still had your tooth in his pliers and just went about his business, not telling you what was going wrong.”

“Well, that wouldn’t have been smart. I could have got hurt.”

“Right, because he admitted his mistake and he learned from it, things got better. And, you know what? I’ll bet he’s much more aware of that problem now then he was back then.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“So, future patients are probably better off, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“So admitting his mistake took care of you quickly and will help others prevent from experiencing what you experienced. That’s two good things from one ‘oops.’”

“But it’s embarrassing to make mistakes.”

“Maybe. But it’s more embarrassing to make them repeatedly, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So, the quicker we acknowledge we made a mistake and the sooner we adjust the better off we are.”

“But, wouldn’t it be better never to slip up?”

“Sure it would. And wouldn’t the world be better if everything worked out exactly like we expect it to?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Spot on. And it’s equally unrealistic to assume you won’t screw-up now and then, especially if you’re trying new things. So without mistakes, there is no reason for adjustment, which means we’re not learning anything; therefore nothing changes. So, one could say mistakes are actually step one in improving our life.”

“But only if we acknowledge them and change them.”

“To do anything else would be a mistake.”

I do not know of a culture that doesn’t celebrate with food. Every holiday circulars from grocery stores show up with ads on what to buy. With Easter and Passover around the corner we are overwhelmed with ads for Kosher foods and hams, marshmallow bunny and chicks, and egg shaped chocolate candies. But besides the celebrations for holidays I also know that in most cultures food is used as a way to placate families in loss as well as poverty. A visit to the home of someone without a lot will be greeted by the only hospitality they know- setting the table and offering you something to eat or drink. It is the way of most of the world. But the food that is being offered is not always good for you.

As the have-nots have less they try to bring happiness with more food. Take the descendants of slaves in the United States. “Soul Food” can be considered the main cause of obesity in blacks. Food that nourishes a spirit is good, I will not deny it. Fried chicken, fried fish, pork chops, collard greens cooked in pork or even (modern recipes) turkey necks, macaroni and cheese, and buttery corn bread have gotten many a black family through hard times. Now in moderation these foods are not bad for you. But I said moderation. Sometimes many of these items are the only foods a family can relate to on a weekly basis. Soul Food brings joy to families that cannot get a new house, a new car or new wardrobes. They pride themselves on a mother’s cooking and the smells that make them smile. They also know that many of these foods were remnants of the slave owner’s table and thus considered slave food. As part of our heritage it is acceptable until it becomes something that is eaten everyday. Not only is this food high in fat but it is also high in sodium, a leading cause of hypertension in people of color.

The question arises, then, how do you change the habits of people whose only joy in life may be living to eat?

You suggest giving them a diet plan and food options to replace the popular foods they love. But there are two things to deal with on that level. One is affordability. The other is what joy will replace the joy of food?

My husband and I talked about this a lot a few days ago after he viewed a news report about a 300 pound 12 year old boy whose father let him eat what he wanted.  Dr. Sanjay Gupta then took the bou and did a body scan showing him that he had the insides of s 56 year old man. In shock the boy decided he didn’t want to be that person anymore and changed his eating habits. When they showed him a month later having lost 20 pounds and happy with what he was doing, he was sitting next to his silent father. The man seemed angry that the only joy he had ever been allowed to give his child was taken away. He had nothing else to offer, probably not even support.

At times like these families who find their overweight loved ones on diets sabotage them with kindness. I have heard “You are getting too thin” said to someone who went from 300 pounds to 250 pounds. I have seen mothers give extra cookies to the child that doesn’t want to be overweight. I have seen fathers buy chips for a child’s breakfast just after he said all he wanted was some fruit.

How do we change this way of thinking? It has been around for ages. Some people say those on Welfare and Food Stamps have the option to buy good, healthy foods with what they are given but it isn’t just about the money. It is about the culture of poverty. Giving chocolate candy is seen as more successful as giving apples or dried fruit. And until someone comes up with a way to help cultures understand that the need for the reward of food can be replaced by the reward of a hug, or a high 5 or a walk together in the park we are always going to have this problem.

Does anyone have an idea or a solution because that is what is needed to help those in poverty get past the food that brings them joy and weight.

If we want our children to be healthy change the school lunches and give them more recess time outdoors in the form of controlled exercise.

When I was in Catholic grade school we had recess but we didn’t have physical education. In fact the first time I had PE was my junior year in high school. It might sound ridiculous now but back then in grade school we had an hour for recess everyday. We also had an hour where we studied religion but that didn’t stop us from playing outside before, during and after school. We did not have a structured fitness program to speak of . Now and then the nuns and priest would call for a game a baseball or jump-rope competitions. In the spring we were allowed to bring our roller skates to school and wreak havoc in the parking lot as we whizzed about running into each other and falling. I have a few scars to prove it but I enjoyed myself immensely when it was time for recess.

What I did not like was lunch. We were provided with a meal that was not always nutritious. Once they gave us fish eggs- and I am not talking about salmon roe. I am talking about something other than a delicacy that was  shaped like a hot dog and stuck in a bun. Most of the students couldn’t stomach it. The meals were not your basic full of fat southern cuisine. They were just tasteless. But one thing we hardly ever had on our lunch trays was cake of cookies. They were saved for special days and events.

Today the cafeteria meals are not helping our children either. We have to understand that bad nutrition habits start at home. As parents we need to accept that. So what should we do before we send our kids to school? Refuse to give them things that don’t aid in nutrition. We have grown into a country that must have dessert after every meal. Our children believe they are entitled to snacks whenever they want them. We have to stop giving it to them and stop giving it to ourselves. Right now my office is full of treats: nuts, candy, cookies. It is for the staff.  I have learned not to eat what is in the closet in my office and I have learned that I cannot afford to consume useless calories. But I am not a child who has been given everything in the world, including food that I don’t need.

So we start at home and demand the save behavior at school.  Cut back on something in the classroom to make every child have PE at least 3 days a week for 30 minutes. And make the teachers be part of it. I know they can be tired from dealing with students but exercise is good for everyone. And if the teachers participate in the exercise program they can report to the parents on how the child is really doing in school. Exercise should be part of the day at school.

We also need better menus that are healthy but attractive to kids. More fruit, less meat, less carbohydrates. Leave off anything with sugar. Sometimes the only full or decent meal that many students get comes from the school cafeteria because their families can’t afford anything else. Make the food edible and enjoyable. Maybe have a contest with chefs from the Food Network or local cooking schools for the best school lunch ever.

These are my thoughts on working on solving the weight problem with our children. I get tired of watching kids get on the subway in the morning eating a bag of 25 cent chips. Offer them an apple and they might think you are out to poison them since we teach them not to take candy (and anything else) from strangers. There are other ideas for solutions out there but these are my thoughts for solutions, not just to complain.

Sometimes – one might even argue “always” – wisdom and truth are found in the most basic statements. One of the simplest, yet most empowering comments I have heard is from Dr. Sue Morter. Aside from being a powerhouse speaker, she’s extremely inspirational, a dynamo on the stage, and outstandingly wise.

“So, what did liberating life-altering observation did she lay pass unto you?” You ask, breathless with anticipation.

“It’s difficult until it isn’t.”

“Huh? That’s it?”

Yep; five words; seven if you don’t count contractions. But, consider the message in that unvarnished declaration. Most of what we want for ourselves is really not difficult to obtain. We possess the tools (or know where to get them) and we know what we desire; all we have to do is go get it. The hitch in the giddy up is how we assemble the plan, making it complex and complicated. We smother it with all makeup of parameters to which we really cannot – or do not want to – abide. We spend so much energy building the golden pathway that we’re too exhausted to walk upon it.

As case in point, how ’bout we look at losing weight? (Wow, who would think I’d choose that as an example?) The bottom line of weight loss is brilliantly clear: Eat less; move more. Period. No pills, no programs, no late-night TV promises. See? That’s not difficult, is it? If I regularly shut my mouth a few minutes earlier and move my feet a couple of steps further, the pounds “magically” falls away. We all know that. Yet, because we’re in such a hurry to “get there,” we go overboard in the implementation and develop barriers to actually achieving what we want.

Boldly, I stand tall, placing my fists upon my hips, puffing out my chest, and proclaiming to anyone who cares (and many who don’t). “I am now on a diet! (Insert trumpets…) Therefore, until I lose 30 pounds, I shall not be able to go with my friends, family, or business associates to any eating establishment. While imprisoned in my barren, spartan, kitchen, I will consume only unprocessed, all-natural, organic, high-fiber, sugar-free, mostly tasteless, foodstuffs. Furthermore, I will rise two hours earlier each and every day and spend that time meditating, journaling, and exercising. I have calculated that this plan will shall allow me to lose three pounds a week, which I will do this day forth until I have achieved my goals.” After my pronouncement, I twirl spectacularly on my heels, place nose firmly in the air and stomp dramatically into my self-established sensory-deprivation chamber, where I shall remain in exclusion until I have achieved a smaller waistline.

Hey Tinkerbell, can we put down the fairy-wand and step out from fantasy-land for a moment?

What began as extremely unfussy and obtainable intention – eating better and moving more – has erupted into a full-scale mega-production requiring learning how to cook differently, shopping with new eyes, rearranging schedules, altering relationships, and devising self-inflicting intimidating goals. Building such blockades makes the procedure ridiculously difficult and horribly unpleasant.

After ramming one’s head against the wall enough, we will look for doors, finally “letting go” and releasing as unproductive the artificial rules and limiting beliefs; which allows us to get down to basics. We find something we will actually do and take one small, simple, easy, baby step; which we repeat until we get actually get what we want.

It was difficult. Then it wasn’t. It is up to each of us to determine when we want that to change.

This week, here in South Carolina, a Columbia city council member who has held office representing the same district (The City of Columbia’s District 2) for 27 years, resigned after pleading guilty to federal tax evasion. According to reports, the man failed to pay more than $25,000 in federal income taxes in 2004. Before this revelation we learned that two convicted felons were trying to run for mayor of the city of Columbia and we have a governor that was hiking the Appalachian Trail in Argentina.

Last week we learned that New York’s elder statesman is being investigated for having filed a misleading financial disclosure report for 2007, he allegedly failing to report at least half a million dollars in assets. Before that, New York’s most recent (2) governors and one of her congressmen (who, by-the-way is a native South Carolinian) have fallen to scandal. Detroit’s former mayor was convicted while in office as was Chicago’s former governor and, the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development resigned while under investigation by the FBI for revoking the contract of a vendor who said he did not like President G.W. The list goes on and on and on and on.

While these people plot and plan ways to line their pockets, cheat on their spouses, payback, pay up, find their soul mates, date prostitutes, dance in water fountains, look for nonexistent weapons, come out of the closet, hike trails, and take their children and friends to the World Series with free tickets that were allegedly solicited valued at $425 a piece and evade taxes our children are being robbed of an education, families are being foreclosed out of their homes while standing on unemployment lines and in food pantries while struggling to get adequate health care and affordable health insurance.
Our country is broken, our government is broken.

These egotistical men and women sitting in high and lofty offices care only about what they want, what they (think they) need, what they think they should be entitled to, and how they can remain in power. You and I don’t count, our children don’t count, our elderly and our infirmed don’t. These people blatantly and continually lie, cheat, steal, cover up, profile, stall, threaten to filibuster, fabricate, procrastinate and pontificate yet, we continue to be in awe of them, reelect them, throw tea parties for them, forgive them and make excuses for them.

Is it just me or, is there something wrong with this picture?

I was in my mid 20s at the time and working as an Avocation Specialist for Job Corps in Atlanta, Georgia. I taught drama and speech, crafts and painting, took students on sports related field trips (don’t ask me why but their favorite was Live Atlanta Wrestling which I never went to but sat outside and read to the background of screams for blood and beatings), and played a mean game of volleyball, the only sport I was ever any good at. My 411 pound friend was often on my team and I have to say we usually won our games and were something to contend with.

Being easily bored with my 2pm to 10pm job I created new evening activities for the all girls Job Corps. Besides art exhibits, pool competitions and the occasional play I conducted an exercise class. We worked out and discussed food options since the menu at the corps was not only bad but carbohydrate heavy and the only places nearby to get food were bars, bar-b-que joints and fast food places.

The happy go lucky 411 young woman wanted to join but I was skeptical. I gave her a few exercises to try on her own until the doctor approved her working out. She confessed that she didn’t want regular exercises and was hoping I had a miracle for her. I replied that I had one exercise that was sure to work. It was called pushing away from the table. She was insulted.

This young woman ate a lot because of her size and because of her upbringing. Both her loving parents were large but nothing like her. Once a week they sent her baked goods such as layer cakes with thick frosting, homemade fudge and brownies and, her favorite, oversized lollypops. I didn’t believe the rumors about her weekly packages until I saw her open one myself. Along with new socks and underwear there appeared a double fudge cake and several suckers. She got upset because there were no cookies.

The nurse on duty called me in one day to tell me that the girl had been sick with a cold and the doctor, meeting her for the first time and amazed at her weight, had put her on a diet. It was requested that the staff counsel her if we saw her eating anything she wasn’t supposed to. We didn’t see much and thought she was doing well. Turns out she was leaving the grounds to seek comfort food. They had asked her parents to stop sending the weekly boxes and she had become distraught. She took what little pocket money she had and would walk 12 blocks to a fried chicken establishment. There she would sit and eat a meal for three people before walking back. She would arrive covered in sweat and everyone from security guards to students thought she was taking matters in her own hands and taking long walks to exercise. It was one of the security guards who saw her there while he was on a lunch break. He said she ate like she was starving. In her mind she probably was since she found the portions they gave her in the Corps cafeteria too small and too filled with veggies.

After a month of her sneaking food and taking long walks the doctor decided to do extensive tests on her. Every organ was in perfect condition, her sugar which had never been high was better than normal and there were no signs of heart disease, high blood pressure or liver ailments. She didn’t have thyroid problems, she didn’t have tooth problems or gum disease. She was in perfect health except for the fact that she was extremely obese.

And she proudly told everyone, she had lost weight. She had lost one pound. She was very happy with herself.

For the rest of her stay at Job Corps her parents sent monthly boxes. The doctor gave up trying to help her diet. They couldn’t force her to loose weight anyway.

I, on the other hand, had to deal with her on a more complex level. As I said she was a happy, self assured person and was easily elected President of the student council. That meant whenever I took the officers to meetings with other Job Corps she had to go. I would apply at the Corps motorpool for a van instead of a car so as to make it comfortable for all four students. More than once all the vans were signed out and I had to take a small car. This presented the problem of who sat where. Worse than that was the site of the meetings: an all you can eat buffets crammed with fattening food. While the other young ladies took a choice of a small helping of fried chicken, pork chops or honey glazed ham, she got a piece of all three. I saw her and saw how the young men from the other Job Corps were looking at her. I mouthed “Put two pieces of meat back” from across the room and although she acquiesced she was not happy. All the way back to Atlanta she complained about being hungry. When we stopped for gas she purchased a large candy bar. This on top of the cake and pie she had for dessert.

When I left Job Corps after two years she was down to 405. She had decided to go on a diet. Why? Her boyfriend of six years had dumped her. She thought that losing weight would get him back. I told her that losing weight would open doors for her to a better life. But that was not what she wanted to hear. She was a young woman in an age defined by looks. She had no sense of self when it didn’t involve food or a man. She had always been fat and happy. Did losing her fat really mean losing her joy?

I don’t know what happened to her but whenever I see commercials for weight loss reality shows I think of her. At some point her healthy heart was probably going to say enough, she was going to start breathing hard after long walks and considering her sweat tooth, diabetes would not be far behind. Or would any of this happen just because she was overweight? Perhaps she learned to take care of herself, perhaps she got down to 300 pounds. Perhaps she developed amazing self esteem again. I struggle with the 50 pounds that I have put on since Job Corps, marriage, two children and a sedentary job. This girl moved and I still don’t move as much as she did. She fed her beast but she worked out all the same with her walks and her volleyball.

We all need to move more, to push away from the table more, and to push back from the computer. Long walks when you can’t run are there for the taking and so is good health. We are a fat society but we are not happy. The carrot that dangles before us with promises of better nutrition and looks is not enough. We must find the pleasure in what it means not to be obese. But we must find it in ourselves. Otherwise we miss the point of good health and good living.

Central Park is huge and a good place for wild animals. I speak of the non-human kind, of course. Three coyotes were spotted on Columbia University’s campus a week after the one appeared in Central Park and got his picture all over the internet. They come to the city like tourists following the train tracks, the parks and the riverbanks. Often when I am in a taxi on the Westside Highway I look at the woods between the river and the high rise apartment buildings and wonder who or what lives there. You can walk down the streets of New York and get attacked by crazed humans but if you walk through the heavily forested areas of the parks and around the highways you may come face to face with a Coyote.

Why are they traveling here? Could be lack of food where they were living. But the best bet from what I have read is they are looking for a place to settle down. January and February are breeding months for these animals, so they might find some places to hold up under and around the Big Apple until spring. Then we might look out and see what looks like German Shepherd pups playing in the park or scampering around the riverbank.

Though New York has been called an Urban Jungle it is really the edge of the forest. Things happen in the woods of Central Park, on the river banks of the Hudson and East Rivers and in the tunnels that are no longer used for trains. Writers have let their imaginations run wild and created stories that place Vampires and Werewolves and strange beasts in the city. My favorite was the television show “Beauty and the Beast” where Vincent, a man with the face and paws of a lion, (played by Ron Perlman of ‘Hellboy’ fame) lived with several others beneath the city. Movie makers have always created hell on earth beneath New York. The isle of Manhattan has been virtual host to all sorts of catastrophic events and the devil gone wild.  Everything from children’s fantasy to exorcisms fill the minds of those who create stories about New York.

But now we have coyotes for real and that may cause more wild ideas to take seed. Suppose one of the critters just walked down the steps and got on a subway train? Rats have done it, I kid you not. What if they started sitting out back of restaurants late and night and waiting for the scraps? What if someone half blind but too vain to get glasses takes one home as a pet?

That is my imagination going wild with coyotes. I am sure there are other ideas out there. But for a while I will be very careful coming home late in the evening. I don’t want to avoid the garbage where the possum-size rats are feeding only to run into a large east coast coyote looking for a mate. Maybe that’s how Vincent was born a lion-man. A female lion escaped from the circus and. . . . Oh that is too sick!

Lent brings a religious custom into the homes of Catholics each year. Modern tradition says whatever you give up for the season you can have on Sunday. I once had a friend who gave up all sweets and on Sundays, after Mass, he would make or have someone make him brownies and consume the whole pan. True, he wasn’t overweight, but after Easter he had a physical and it turned out that his sugar levels were elevated and he had gained five or six pounds. Lent helped him save his soul as it should, but not his health.

Suppose there was a government mandate that for six weeks you had to give up your favorite gourmet diversion. We are talking about infringing on your rights but let us just pretend and while we’re at it, let’s make the stakes higher. For six weeks you could not buy the sweets you like because they are pulled from all the shelves. It would be like blue laws in some states and counties where you can’t buy liquor or clothes on Sunday. Imagine no cakes, pies or candy. No fresh baked cookies, no ice cream and no delicate pastries. For six weeks you cannot have these things in order to make you aware of how much you indulge in what you don’t need. While send all the baked left on the shelf to starving countries you become aware of the fact that you were having a cinnamon bun for breakfast, two cookies with your lunch and a half a pint of rich ice cream after dinner. The goal is not to substitute other foods of high sugar and even salt content but to learn to live without. That’s the point of giving something up- learning that you can live without it. For six weeks the law would require it. Everyone over the age of 18 would have to partake in this experiment. It would be akin to being drafted and therefore we could expect some protests and people leaving the country in search of the freedom to have sticky buns or red velvet cake.

But what happen to those people who stayed and followed the letter of the law?

If they were smart they would not try to find substitutes for the things that were gone. We have an abundance of foods even if every dessert dropped of the face of the Earth. Dessert does not always have to be a baked or creamy treat. What about fruit? I always wondered how they made coconut cream pie on the television show ‘Gilligan’s Island.’ Maybe the whipped topping was cream of coconut. Naturally sweet and filling. That is what kind of food we should all eat- things that are natural and filling. At the end of six weeks we might have a slightly healthier nation.

But most people in the States can’t even approach the word diet without negative feelings. They feel that they are entitled to foods they adore and overeat. We just eat like pigs. We fill our troth with anything we can afford whether it is good for us or not. If we like the taste we go for it. We binge, we indulge and we promise that we will not do it again.

Unfortunately those who give up chocolate often turn to potato chips to fill a void. They do look at their need for sugar being replaced by fresh fruits. Those who give up burgers delight in a triple decker club sandwich. Those who give up wine end up drinking beer. The bottom line is there is no learning to do without. There is just replacement. And with replacement comes the same problem: we are just too fat for our own good.

There is no law that says you have to fast from certain foods. However one can use Lent as a starting point in learning how to rethink the way one eats. A little sacrifice never hurt us, even in this time of economic woe. That which does not kill us makes us stronger. Giving up foods that you enjoy for six weeks will not kill you. It may help you shed a few pounds.

Think about it.

Let’s begin by populating it with lots of tired, irritable inhabitants confined to a cramped area with hardly any places to rest and absolutely no spot to get comfortable. Many of these folks will wear too much perfume or, better yet, haven’t seen the working end of a shower in days. Of course, the whole environment has to be far from home, and – oh yes – let’s make it extremely loud.

Now, let’s spruce up the annoyance factor by tossing in some arcane commands.

Rule one: You are only allowed to have in your ownership one container of essential items; but the consequences for possessing those is that is you must drag them behind you wherever you go; a ball and chain. Rule Two: Not for a minute can you let them leave your custody. If you want to add more items, you can purchase from a very limited supply of things that will be far more costly than they should be, and you must stand in long lines to obtain them (don’t forget, you must have your container always in tow).  Rule Three: Nosy, ill-mannered, discourteous natives will handle and interrogate you at will, sporadically rummage through your package of personal belongings, and time after time subject you to yet additional seemingly useless rules which may change at any time.

I think we’re done. What shall we call it?  Dante’s Inferno? Hell? How about, “An Airport?”

Traveling has a knack to make anybody cranky; so, I had empathy for the nine-year-old with the pink suitcase waiting in the petrified line to board the jet. Her dad, bent close to her, staring unflinchingly into her eyes, was wagging his finger for emphasis and scolding her sotto voce. “We don’t push people out of the way. We wait our turn, do you understand?”

Her eyes drilling into the floor of the gateway, an angry expression contorting her face, she rocked defiantly from side-to-side, holding steadfast, “He’s not ‘people;’ he’s my little brother! And he’s slow! I want to get on the airplane all ready! I’m tired!”

“I understand,” replied her father, “We’re all frustrated. But that doesn’t excuse pushing. Are we clear?”

“I want to get on the airplane!” She stomped her foot for emphasis and crossed her arms across her chest.

“We will go on the airplane when you apologize to Robbie. Tell him you’re sorry.”

Begrudgingly realizing she had no choice and finally accepting the parameters, she faced her sibling, mumbled something, then looked back at Dad.

“Very good,” he said; hugged her, rose to his full height and took her by the hand as the family proceeded forward. She had learned her lesson, her reward being that she now able to proceed to her objective.

As I watched the drama, it dawned on me that this process does not end when we move away from our parents. It is a sequence that presents itself continually: Frustration. Lesson. Acceptance. Progress. Repeat cycle as necessary until learned.

The only difference between those of us with single-digit ages and smooth skin, and those of us with a few years under our belts and a road map of wrinkles, is that we aren’t always fortunate enough to have someone explain the guidelines so clearly.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. Join him on a nationally broadcast teleconference about weight loss on March 7, 2010. Find out more at http://www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com

I admit to being addicted to writing, movies, reading, and certain television shows. All sedentary activities in a world besieged by life in front of a computer screen. But I also like to walk even when my knees are complaining that they want to rest. It was how I learned mythology and history from my father and my great aunt when I was a kid. Since I can’t run down the street anymore and kick cowardly Leon Dobbs for stealing my home-made baseball pat, or chase Algernon Nash for making me fall for no good reason except it made him laugh or climbing the tree with his brother Jonas and hiding in the branches to get away from crazy, hyper Algernon, I have to walk and go to the gym and take exercise classes so that my behind doesn’t get as wide as the Mississippi.

Children don’t get to play like that anymore.

My mother put us out of the house when it wasn’t raining. There was sunshine and we were supposed to get it. Nobody ever heard of taking Vitamin D. We drink milk like water (until they discovered I was lactose intolerant) so we had healthy bones and plenty of calcium. No one let us eat every five minutes. We played in the yard and in the street when the adults were watching so we didn’t get run over by cars. Sickly kids stayed inside on sunny days and read books. We went to visit them, if our parents assumed they weren’t contagious, and that’s when we played lots of board games.

So what happened to our children?

We have to pay for after school activities because we are too busy to teach them how to ride a bike or to throw a ball. And there are special places to ride bikes and throw balls because there are more cars and more pedophiles. We fear our children won’t get into good schools if their young brains are not bombarded with fact after fact after fact. So we place them in front of the computer at the age of 2, the piano at 3, and teach them languages from DVDs.

But we don’t let them go outside and just play. Everyday. We created a world that requires heightened security just to be a child and walk the streets.

The drugs that are easy to get on the street also come with dirty needles that end up in parks and playgrounds. Diseases that we thought had faded into the dust are found on cans, bottles, swings and shirtsleeves. Even the water fountains are full of bacteria, so we bring wipes and hand sanitizers and bottles of water that may be sanitary but end up hurting the environment. It is a scary, dangerous world out there. And because of sexual predators on the Internet, it isn’t that safe indoors.

So we take our babies to mommy and me exercise classes instead of taking them out in nature. And we get computer connected games that require some movement instead of challenging our ten year olds to a run around the local track. We give them protein bars in the morning instead of oatmeal and fruit. We have replaced the good old days with the lazy days of modernization.

It should be mandatory that every child gets outside three times a day during the week. On the way to school, at recess, and then on the way home. On the weekends it should be mandatory that parents who claim they have worked too hard and are too tired to do anything but rest in front of the television rest on a park bench while the kid climbs a jungle gym and swings about like a screaming monkey. On outing is not going to shop or to the grocery store. It is being outside and taking in nature.

What will help parents understand this is what happens after a child has been outside for more time than it takes to get the mail out of the mailbox. They want to move more, spent less time in front of the computer and television and they sleep better at night. They say toddlers need 10 hours of sleep. I don’t know of any kid with a computer in their room that gets that much rest.

Take the children outside, please. They need to know that blue is the color of the sky and not just a blank computer screen. They need to move.

Said I, adjusting rose-colored glasses, “I disagree. None of us know how much time we have, but good health allows us to enjoy it as long as possible.”

Came the reply, “Personally, I think good health is merely the state of dying at the slowest possible pace.”

Clunk. Ouch. End of bizarre conversation.

That said, in light of all the discussion lately, I’ve got a thing or two to say about a thing or two about health care. Since my column is not political in nature, I’ll attempt to steer clear of that sticky widget. Yet, I’m assuming, no matter one’s political leanings, we agree that something is unwell within our health care system.

They say, “Figures don’t lie, liars figure.” So knowing I could be stepping into an ugly morass, I still wish share a few statistics that I find particularly noteworthy.

According to the 2006 revision of the United Nations World Population Prospects report, for the period 2005-2010, our country ranks 33 when it comes to infant mortality. We are sandwiched between New Caledonia and Croatia.

On the other end of life, from our own CIA’s World Factbook, last updated April 2009, our life expectancy is 50th. A child born in the U.S. today will likely be around for 78.1 years.  Combine those statistics with the staggering fact that the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (a group representing 30 wealthier, industrialized countries) computed that the United States spent $7,290 per capita on health care, ranking it first among the countries studied.

Might just be me, but I don’t think we’re getting our money’s worth.

Whether the solution is public option or private health insurance is not the issue I’m trying to address. Yes, what our government does might indeed affect us for generations far beyond our (hopefully extending) lifespans. Yes, there is much to be corrected.

But, quoting Cassius, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves…” It’s easy to pronounce and pontificate about what “they” should do, it’s quite another little something to step to the platform, roll up our sleeves, and actually take action. Irrespective of legislation regarding “single payer” or “pre-existing conditions,” we must each make a difference in our own lives by establishing good health as a higher priority in day-to-day decisions.

This does not mean uproot and rebuild your entire routine, throwing every habit into the waste bin.  Make a small stand if that’s all you can do but make it now. Opt for less processed food. Lower your sugar intake. Park your car at the far end of the lot. Small steps done regularly have more impact than big steps done intermittently. In other words, it’s better to get out and walk around the block — and really do it — than it is to promise to run a mile someday soon but never get around to it.

Find an excuse to act in a healthier fashion. It feels good; it’s even patriotic.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at  scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

• Giving Thanks
• Thanksgiving Day Parade
• Football
• Breaking the wishbone
• Turkey and Trimmings

I am unclear how the genealogy section of About.com determined this; yet intuitively it appears correct. Ever curious (and always looking for content for my column), I wondered how these came to be; so I did some research. I share.

According to historians, the Pilgrims never observed an annual Thanksgiving banquet in autumn. In the year 1621, they did celebrate a feast following their first harvest, but this ceremony was never repeated. (Oddly, most devoutly religious pilgrims of that time did observe a day of thanksgiving, but they did so by fasting.) George Washington was the first president to declare the holiday, in 1789.

In the mid–1800s, many states — but not all — observed a Thanksgiving holiday. During the Civil War, President Lincoln, looking for ways to unite the nation, discussed the subject with poet and editor Sarah J. Hale, who had been lobbying for Thanksgiving to become a national holiday. In 1863 he gave his Thanksgiving Proclamation and declared the last Thursday in November a day of thanksgiving.

Seeking to lengthen the Christmas shopping season, Franklin D. Roosevelt, in 1939, 1940, and 1941, changed Thanksgiving to the third Thursday in November. Finally, amid controversy, Congress passed a joint resolution in 1941 and since that time, Thanksgiving remains on the fourth Thursday of November.

Of course, giving thanks remains the bedrock of the celebration and our country is not alone in that tradition. Other countries with an official Thanksgiving holiday include Argentina, Brazil, Canada, Japan, Korea, Liberia, and Switzerland.

As for football, the first intercollegiate football championship was held on Thanksgiving Day in 1876. Parades started almost a half-century later when, in 1920, Gimbel’s Department Store in Philadelphia organized the first one. Many erroneously credit the first parade to Macy’s, which actually began in 1924, and of course, continues to this day.

I did not realize that the wishbone had such a long history. Getting the larger section of the wishbone and making a wish upon it dates back to the Etruscans  (who lived in northwestern Italy in the first millennium BC). The Romans brought the tradition with them when they conquered England and the English colonists carried the tradition on to America. For those of us who appreciate the derivation of phrases, the term “lucky break,” comes from getting the larger piece.

With regards to the choice of turkey for the main course of the meal, blame or credit that to the evolution of our language. In the 1600s, “turkey” was the generic name to describe all fowl. Actually, many historical accounts of that first feast include references to venison, boiled pumpkin, berries, and, maybe even shellfish.

Although food is definitely a means by which we celebrate good fortune, I must note that nowhere is “stuffing oneself until sick” listed as a tradition. Quite the contrary, I would go so far as to say that uncomfortable, pained, hyper-expanded feeling that follows so many Thanksgiving celebrations actually detracts from the appreciative sense of gratitude one would hope to experience. Maybe, that’s one tradition we can drop this year.

Therefore, amid friends and family, let us resolve this year to find more reasons to give thanks, more occasions to help those less fortunate than us, and more ways to take better care of ourselves, starting with a wonderful Thanksgiving.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country.  He will be giving thanks for the fact that you read this and can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

Did You Know?  95% of all New Year’s resolutions are either forgotten or broken by “Blue Monday,” the third Monday in January?  That’s a pretty discouraging statistic.

Like you, I’ve seen all the suggestions to set goals instead of “making resolutions” – make them specific – measurable – give them a time frame.  Honestly I don’t think it matters what you call them. Truthfully, while setting goals is definitely important and something I do, let’s consider something else.  As 2010 begins, I suggest we simply build momentum.  Apply it to your health, finances, spiritual growth, relationships and career.

I think, with both resolutions and goals, we get excited and set these huge, extravagant ones. You know – lose 50 lbs by March 1st, start a new business, begin making an extra $5,000 a month, find my soul mate.  I definitely believe we should “think big” and set goals that stretch us beyond our comfort zone.  The problem is we forget that no one takes one big step and reaches their goal. The road to fulfilling any goal – whether it’s improving health, finances or relationships – is paved with a series of well-thought-out, concrete, smaller steps.  In my 3-D Living Programs I call this taking baby steps.

None of us begins teaching our child to walk and gets impatient and disgusted if they take one or two teetering little steps and then falls. No, we celebrate and cheer them on and when they take three wobbly, tiny steps the next time – we are thrilled that they made progress!   Isn’t that the heart of the matter – making progress? 

The Bible tells us in Zechariah 4:10 we are “not to despise the day of small beginnings.” That’s really good advice. In order to achieve any goal or fulfill any resolution, we have to schedule a series of baby steps, celebrating each success, no matter how small. This creates momentum.  “Momentum” is a physics term meaning the product of mass X velocity or the tendency of a moving object to keep moving.    I heard one teacher describe momentum as “moving in your moment.” I like that!

We all have the same amount of time each day: 1,440 minutes at our disposal. Each one of those minutes is yours to move in. You can move forward, backward or stand still. The choice is yours. To my way of thinking, even moving a half-step forward toward the fulfillment of your goals is preferable to either of the other two alternatives!

So, instead of punishing yourself for not making MORE progress – congratulate yourself on the forward movement you have made in your particular moment. Don’t despise them if they are small. Instead of focusing so much on the size, focus on the direction.

As we prepare to begin this brand new year, I encourage you to take some time and create momentum in achieving your health goals by sharing them with someone you trust.  Make a commitment to give them periodic updates on your progress.  Have one action you can take each day to “move in your moment.”  It doesn’t have to be BIG – walk an extra 100 steps; drink an extra glass of water; replace one junk food with one real food; eat breakfast; begin taking your supplements consistently.  Just create momentum and it will effortlessly carry you forward!  Don’t wait another moment – move in this one right now!