The Better Life

It seems that the news media hast taken to inundating the public with health messages.  

"Four exercises you need to do every day."

"Can meditation improve your life?"

"How many miles do you actually need to walk each day?"

"This diet will reduce your chance of heart attack and stroke."

And, of course, there is the interest in Dry January just now, mocktails, etc.  Doing the right things can take up all your time. . . but you'll live forever.  

Or, as the saying goes. . . it will just feel like it.  

I know, I know. . . I don't have to read it.  

I'm over a week into Dry January, and I still haven't slept a whole night through.  I don't think I've lost any weight, either.  Where are all the promised benefits of eschewing alcohol the experts promised?  What?  Oh, yea. . . "may include."  I see.  Those dodgy fuckers hedge their bets.  

The question I never see addressed, however, is. . . are the ones who walk an hour a day, eat a Mediterranean diet, practice yoga and meditation after their workout in the gym, and eschew alcohol and other forms of artificial stimulation. . . are they happier when they die?  I mean, is it a more pleasant experience?  

"What?  Why?  I don't get it.  I did everything right!!!"

The old quandary--who enjoyed life more, Jack LaLanne or Frank Sinatra?

"Jack LaLanne, known as the "Godfather of Fitness", set a world record for push-ups by doing 1,033 in 23 minutes on the TV show You Asked for It in 1956."

He did outlive Sinatra by 14 years, 96 to 82, so there is that.  I can only imagine how many pushups he was able to do in those 14 years.  

But goodness is its own reward.  

I've known people who have lots and lots of money but refuse to spend it.  They get their kicks by nickel and diming.  One fellow with whom I was friends and with whom I travelled cut and colored his own hair, drove a piece of shit car, and cheated at the Wendy's salad bar when we had lunch.  He was listed in the Forbes 400 for many years.  He could afford anything, but he chose to wear his shirts well after the collars frayed.  

There are many mantras to choose from.  

Dry January is just a discipline I practice each year, just to make sure I can do it.  But it is a little like being in a rehab program.  It's like climbing mountains and running dangerous rivers.  Some people like doing it.  I think I've ever only liked having done it.  

But right now, I'm in it.  I can't go out on a Friday night, as the song goes.  I've got the A.A. blues.  

My god. . . that's a good picture.  It's a new old one.  I've got a million of 'em.