Sunday, 28 September 2014

I ate corn twice and other summer regrets

I may have slept through the Summer of 2014.
Certainly, I didn't do much else.
Last week, it hit me. I'd only consumed corn on the cob, my absolute favorite vegetable, twice.
When I was a kid, the oldsters teased me that I could eat a dozen corn on the cob in one sitting -- when I was twelve!
 For some people that would mean hugging the toilet for a couple of hours. In my case, living in a house without indoor plumbing, that would not have been an option.
It just didn't seem to affect me that way, whether I ate one cob or a dozen. I was like a little beaver sawing logs. RRRRRRR; in thirty seconds the cob was done.
Alas, as I get older, corn does get me runnin' a bit, but I still love to slather the butter, salt the little number and scarf it down. It's a horror show really, with condiments dripping from my face.
Shirts are never the same after a good feet at the trough.
But this year, the oompf went out of my corn dogging.
Maybe it was all the dieting I've done over the past few years. Maybe it's Doctor Oz.
It think this whole weight thing has actually made me afraid of certain foods. Except ice cream. I could never be afraid of ice cream.
Whatever the reason, corn wasn't on the menu. I will miss it terribly come January and will be jonzing for it in the spring.
Thinking about corn, a reality set in. I realized that I have stopped doing many of my favorite things in the summer.
I didn't play tennis.
Haven't for years.
I used to love tennis, the sun on my face, the whirr of the ball as somebody hit it past your left ear when you weren't paying attention, the beer afterwards, the company.
But tennis has become too demanding. If you play club tennis, you have to commit to showing up, and I rarely commit to lunch these days. Also, my left knee has developed arthritis.
But watching Eugenie Bouchard not win any majors this year, has brought back the longing.
Unfortunately, it hasn't brought me back to the courts.
I used to play golf a couple times a week -- at least. For two years, I rented a condo at Amberwood Village, back in the day. I played nearly every day when I was working nights reviewing bad bands for the Citizen.
Amberwood had tennis courts, a par three golf court, a pool and racquetball.
It was a dream spot.
Over those two years, I was never in better shape. It brought joy into my life to see the little white ball sail over treacherous waters and land on the green. Didn't always happen, but when it did, I couldn't believe there was a better feeling on Earth.
Who cared about the mosquitos the size of softballs?
Even if I sucked, it was still a nice walk on a rich man's lawn.
I haven't played golf in years, either.
It's too expensive.
Besides, now everybody is taking it up and all the courses look like car washes, with everybody lining up, hurrying up, just to wait.
I can get that at Red Lobster.
I used to walk, too, through the woods, smelling the pine air and kicking the chips on this city's wonderful trails. Now, I can only go once a week, for the running of the hounds, because of my damned bummed knee.
Oh yes, and cottage life. There's nothing nicer than going to a cottage, paddling around a lake, playing cards til midnight and reading in the sun while feeding peanuts to a chippie.
We didn't get invited to any cottages this year.
It's sad because every day I wake up to see the gorgeous images on the splash pages of my Facebook friends who have inherited their parents' cottages. I'm an orphan from a widowed woman, so I sit here looking at the cottage pictures, writing on this old computer and hoping Rosie O'Donnell will get into a fight on The View.
It's sad, really, to realize you've become a pastey faced, yo-yo-dieting indoor girl.
Fear has brought me to this place.
I'm afraid to get out in the sun and venture out only in the twilight like some kind of vamp. I slather on SPF 40 instead of baking in the noon day sun.
I want to bake. I want to tan.
But fear and a fierce esthetician has keep those instincts at bay.
The good news is I have virgin skin again. The spots are gone, the bags have subsided.
I look like a summer lass voting in the Scotland referendum.
But I kept my promise and now I have virgin skin again.
I've traded in the golf clubs for a gym membership. I swim in a tepid saltwater pool instead of with the leeches and zebra mussels.
I've given up the carbs that brought joy to my belly in favor of squash and kale.
Sometimes I regret this change of lifestyle.
I'm no longer what you would consider a risk taker.
But my waistline, and my skin, and my knee thank me.
At this age, I guess that has to be enough.

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