On the precipice

Anyone else feel this way about Election Day?

This Tuesday, November 8th, is Election Day in the United United States. This campaign, which has seemingly been going on since the dawn of time, is drawing to a tortured close, allegedly. I say allegedly because one of the candidates has made it clear that if he loses, it will be anything but over (given this candidate's stupefying ignorance of how the government, the Constitution, and how elections work, this should come as no surprise). The specter of this madness continuing makes me want to leap off a cliff, but so does the thought of that candidate actually being elected President of the United States.

It's no secret that this has been one unending, hideous, vitriolic campaign between two deeply flawed, deeply disliked candidates. But one of these candidates is so flawed, it boggles the mind. I could rehash it six ways 'til Sunday, but I'll let Danny Zuker do the talking on the Republican candidate:

His ignorance and imcompetence is staggering. His vindictiveness is without limits. His skin is paper thin. His entire image is a lie so deep his only true success is his ability to hide any possible record of his earnings, losses or foreign investments. A man whose need for attention is so deep he will get in bed with the KKK, anti-Semites, and Breitbart.

I know for those that have pledged their support to him that what Zuker said, or what anyone said, makes no difference. You've made your choice, which is both the beauty and the curse of a free electorate. However, if he is elected (shudder), you never get to complain about racism, misogyny, anti-Semitism, or how unbelievable it is that the President is really that cozy with Russia. The one thing I would love to hear from you though, especially those members of my faith, is how you explain your support of him, a man who openly reviles women and is perversely comfortable in speaking about them in the vilest of terms, to your daughters - the same daughters who if a young man spoke to them or about them the way this candidate does, you would be on your way to jail for what you did to that young man.

From his substance-less platform to his hate-filled cult of severely flawed personality - this is not what I want for our country. According to scores of his rabid acolytes who threatened me in the vilest of ways via Twitter, that is an opinion I am not allowed to hold. According to them, I am not allowed my Constitutionally guaranteed freedom of speech. So to think he's going to preserve "conservative" values is like thinking that there is a dollar figure that would stop Kris Kardashian from pimping out her family. To quote George H.W. Bush (who I have met and quite like actually), "not going to happen."

For those of you who no longer want to call me "friend" after this post, I am sorry. My circle of friends, both real and in the world of social media, are a diverse group and I love that. But if this is a bridge too far for you, I'll understand. I'll be sorry to see you go.

For those of you who want to call my local ecclesiastical leader and let him know that you think I am the Anti-Christ for reaffirming that #ImWithHer, let me know and I'll connect you.

For those of you who by some small miracle are still undecided, please vote.

One final note:

Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. - Galatians 6:7

P.S. - No one needs to point out to me that this verse applies as much to the Democratic candidate as it does the Republican. So delete the "get thee hence, hypocrite!" emails now.

At My Peak

Wait, is that Woody Allen?

Fall brings the changing of the leaves, cooler temperatures, pumpkin spice hysteria/overload and the joy of my annual physical. As I've just turned 50, and knowing that my doctor has been warning me for two years that the physical for my 50th would bring 'fun' things (colonoscopy), I wasn't looking forward to it.

Today was the day of my physical. First, I am delighted to report that there was no -scopy of any kind, rather just a referral and a sixty day window to get that done. Secondly, I can report that I am at my peak. Unfortunately, it's not my good peak so 'tis nothing to crow about.

As I sat on the exam table, scantily clad in a purple paper robe, facing my physician, he painted the following picture of my craptastic peak:

• I am at my heaviest weight ever. I won't reveal the number...yet, but it wasn't good.
• My bad cholesterol levels are the highest they've ever been.
• My good cholesterol level is heading towards ruin faster the Kardashians' sense of propriety.
• I am now approaching "Poster Boy" status for Potential Heart Attack Victim.
• On the bright side, my blood sugar levels were delightful.

As he laid all that out for me, the paper robe seemed to be getting tighter and tighter. I felt I might be turning the same shade of purple as the robe. But it wasn't the robe choking me out. It was my own shame recognition that this is all my own doing. I am at my craptastic peak because I've let myself get there. I'm the one who stopped running, something I thought would have been impossible. I'm the one who even last night at a donut place in Urban Space Vanderbilt had no problem whatsoever shoveling that pumpkin donut into his mouth. To be fair, it was delicious. I'm the one who let this happen. It's all on me. So my shame was at DefCon 1 as my good doctor went through the litany of sins that I'd committed against the temple that is my middle-aged body.

In high irony, it was a relief when he stopped that fusillade and moved on to the worst part of the exam. You know the one I'm talking about. The one that the late Joan Rivers riffed on how men really have it easy when they go to the doctor versus what women experience. She said something like this, "A man gets turned over on his stomach. He gets to pretend he's in a spy movie. 'I'll tell you nothing Nazi pig!'" For better or worse, that part of the exam was over in no time, sans a spy movie scenario.

But what is not over is the reality that I am at my craptastic peak. That's not a fun peak upon which to rest because coming down is going to be a nightmare. Usually, when climbing a peak, you nearly break yourself on the way up. It's the hike down off this one that is going to be, well, unpleasant. It's got to be done.

The climb down from Mt. Dadbod starts today.

Hell-o-ween

Oh, the humanity!

My attempts at participation in the uniquely American celebration of Halloween, wherein adult woman do their level best to dress as tartly as possible and adult men try to work through their body dysmorphia issues, have been pretty lame throughout my adult years. It's just never been one of those things I've been able to get behind and that's probably a good thing.

Tonight will be no different. There will be no dressing up. We're here in Connecticutistan this year, unlike last year where we were behind the Zion Curtain and I got to accompany my grandson on his search for treats. It will be a quiet night here in our cul-de-sac.

It was a very different story twenty eight years ago at a Halloween party in Provo, Utah. I shared the story behind "The Blisters" in this post from 2014. Read it if you must want a refresher on the details that led to this homage / parody to the Sister side of the #mormonmafia. I suspect Lou Dobbs would recoil in horror were the three Blisters to show up on his doorstep. That said, it would have been a crowning achievement for the #mormonmafia. Interwebs, where were you in 1988!?

Suffice to say, it will be a far quieter night here than it was all those years ago. I look at that picture and laugh and am grateful for really good times. At the same time, I fear that if the three of us recreated that picture today, I'd actually fill out that dress better.

I gotta go for a run.

Emerging

As the month of September drew to a close, I lamented that I was feeling devoid of thoughts about what I should continue to post here in the Den. I had no idea that this musing was going to turn into a month-long absence.

I'd like to say that I've spent this month off soul-searching and delving into the recesses of my mind for more content. Rest assured, I have not. I'd like to say I've taken some courses in the fine art of blogging to improve my minuscule piece of the Interweb. Rest assured, I have not.

Honestly, I've spent a lot of time lamenting the fact that now that The RM is home, I don't have that content to share. I loved those weekly updates. Loved them. Further, I've spent too much time comparing myself to other bloggers who are far better writers than I that have eloquently and passionately shared their perspectives on the upcoming U.S. presidential election / potential Civil War (thanks for that dog whistling Trump fascists). This whole thing of comparing myself to others has long been a crippling weakness for me (stories about my reacting badly to those comparisons is enough fodder for a year of blogging) and you'd think at the age of 50, I would have figured a way out of that trap. I haven't. How's that for progress?

Progress or not, it's time to emerge from my self-imposed time in the dark. It's time to come back into the light, as it were. I'm not changing the world here. This is not the place to find a cure for cancer. It's just a place where I write stuff. And it's time to write again.