Category Archives: Funny, eh?

Weighed and Measured

I was weighed the other day, and measured.  And to my great surprise, I was found wanting.

There I stood, like a lamb for the slaughter—clad in undergarments and socks, a paper gown hanging ignominiously from my slumping shoulders—facing the long arm of the weigh scale, its pendulous weights being moved unrelentingly to the right by an unsympathetic nurse.

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Another arm, this one perpendicular to the weigh bar, lay atop my head.

“No tiptoes!” the nurse said.  “Heels down.”

So I raised my chin as high as I dared, and stretched my torso skyward, straining for every fraction of height.  I’m sure I heard my spine decompressing…ouch!

I sucked my stomach in when she wrapped a tape around my waist, and held my breath as the gown crinkled against me.  I swear she took her time to read it, waiting to see if I’d have to let go.  Mercifully, she released me before I expired.

All my efforts were to no avail, however.  The results spoke for themselves.  Well, actually, I had to ask for them.

“Okay, step down,” the nurse said.  “Sit up on the bed, the doctor will be in shortly.”

“What was I?” I asked, clambering up as directed, pressing the gown between my legs to keep from exposing my nether regions.  As if the nurse cared.  At my age, I’m not even sure why I did.

“Weight, seventy-nine kilos,” she said, placing the clipboard with my chart on a small table by the bed.  “Height, a hundred and seventy-three point seven centimetres.  Waist, ninety-one point four centimetres.”

“What’s that in pounds and inches?” I asked to her departing back.

“Don’t know,” she said.  “Don’t use those anymore.”

The doctor didn’t know, either, although she was much more forthcoming than the nurse.  “You’re a little above weight for your age,” she said, “and a tad too short for your weight.  But it’s the BMI we’re concerned with.”

“BMI?”

“Body-Mass Index.  It’s a measure of body fat, based on weight and height.  Ideally, you should fall somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five.”  She was busy typing who-knows-what into the computer on the table, its screen angled away from me.

“So what am I?” I asked.

“Let’s see,” she said.  “Hmm, slightly overweight.  Twenty-six point eight.  Nothing to worry about, but it would be good to get it inside the normal range.”

“I’m not fat!” I protested.  “I still wear the pants I wore ten years ago.  Thirty-four-inch waist.”

She looked at me—not unkindly, but quizzically—perhaps wondering why anyone would still be wearing clothes from a decade ago.  “You can’t go by the sizes on your clothing,” she said.  “The manufacturers fudge the numbers somewhat, likely to make us all feel better.”

“Really?” I said.  That was news to me, discouraging news, until I realized that, no matter the number, my old pants still fit.  “Okay, but they’re the same size they were…well, whenever I bought them.  I can still get into them.”  Even I could hear the tinge of desperation in my voice.

“I’m sure they do,” she said gently.  “But perhaps your BMI was high back then, too.  Or maybe you were taller.”

“Taller?” I repeated.  “You mean I could be shrinking?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said, rising from her chair.  “Gravity always wins, so most people shrink as they get older.”

“Older?” I repeated.

“Older!  Now, lie back on the bed,” she said, “and let’s have a look at you.”

I must have looked alright, even for an old guy, because twenty minutes later she let me go.  Dressed again in my familiar, old clothes, the crinkly paper gown gladly discarded.  As soon as I got home, I headed for the computer to do the conversions—kilograms to pounds, centimetres to inches.  I figured the metric units were bigger than the imperial ones—as in one metre is longer than one yard—so my real numbers would probably be smaller.  I was surprised by the results.

“A hundred and seventy-six pounds!” I said to my wife, disbelievingly.  “Five feet, eight inches!  Thirty-six-inch waist!  This is crazy!  I’m taller than that!  Their scales must be off.”

“As long as you feel good,” my wife said, “don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried,” I said, convincing neither of us.  “But these numbers can’t be right.  She told me I was overweight, for crying out loud.  My BMI.”

“What was the number?”  My wife obviously knew what BMI meant.

“Umm, twenty-six point eight,” I said, referring to the scribbles I’d made on the back of my appointment card.  “I’m going to calculate it with the imperial numbers, see if it’s lower.”

It wasn’t, though.  I was overweight metrically and imperially, it seemed.

In the Book of Daniel, chapter 5, there’s a passage depicting a judgement visited upon King Belshazzar, where a spectral hand wrote words of condemnation on a wall.  Those words have been translated as:  You are weighed in the balance and are found wanting.

That’s exactly how I felt after my visit to the doctor’s office.  I’d been weighed and measured, and found wanting.  Wanting to be lighter, wanting to be taller, wanting to be thinner!

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I tried to imagine how the poor old king must have felt when he saw the handwriting on the wall, but our situations were quite different.  It had to have been worse for him.  He lost his kingdom, after all, and his life.

All I have to lose is some weight.

Condoms or Condos?

As a virtuous, young man—newly-married, not ready yet for children, and still naïve about worldly pleasures of the flesh—I had occasion to consult a pharmacist about the purchase of a certain safe-sex item for use at home.  Sheepishly, in a voice so low the white-coated gentleman had to lean over the counter to hear me, I asked him for a box of what I needed.

“Condos?” he repeated, much too loudly for my comfort.  “I think you mean condoms, sir!”

Embarrassed by the amused attention his declaration drew from nearby customers, I was forced to endure a short tutorial on the difference between condos (profitable investments) and condoms (prophylactic vestments).  I never forgot the distinction, a lesson that served me well when my wife and I eventually purchased a condominium apartment.

No longer young now, nor nearly so naïve, I am living high over our shoreline neighbourhood, looking out on Lake Ontario, one of 328 suites in two towers that comprise our community within the larger community.  To the east of us, the city’s glass-plated skyscrapers gleam like coppery fire at sundown each day, a testament to the vibrant metropolis we border.

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We, too, are a vibrant community, with so much to offer those who care to emerge from their cliff-dwellings to engage with their neighbours.  The towers share a club facility with amenities including:  an exercise wing, featuring separate gyms for women and men, separate saunas, a yoga studio, a squash court, an indoor golf range, a large swimming pool under massive skylights, a communal hot tub, and a tennis court; a sizable art room for painters of all persuasions; a woodworking facility, complete with enough power tools to make a carpenter envious; a large lounge, enclosed along one entire side with outsized windows affording a magnificent view of the lake, with a massive fieldstone fireplace at one end; a billiards room; and magnificent grounds, shaded by mature trees, with gardens and ponds galore.

Gatherings in the lounge are frequent for many club activities, including bridge and euchre clubs, book clubs, a choral group, coffee klatches, knitting groups, readers in the library—and lots more besides.  In many ways, the club is a social centre for the two towers.  At least, it is for those who choose to take part.

One of our favourite activities is the Friday late-afternoon gathering, where residents and guests congregate for an informal cocktail party before dinner.  It used to be called Happy Hour, but is known now as After Five, and everyone brings their own libations downstairs.  In the winter, a roaring fire crackles in the hearth; in summer, doors are thrown open to the lake breezes.  We find it a happy time, my wife and I, a lovely way to keep in touch with friends and neighbours.  And nobody has to drive home!

Apparently, however, not everyone agrees with us.  On our way to the lounge one day we encountered a couple in the corridor, obviously returning from grocery shopping.  We didn’t know them, but it’s our habit here to offer a polite hello to all and sundry.  The man merely nodded curtly in reply.  His wife, pulling a laden bundle-buggy several paces behind him, must have seen the wine bottle case hanging from my shoulder.

“Oh, right,” she sniffed, “it’s the drinking night again!”

We were too nonplussed to reply and carried on to our destination, struck by the tone of disapproval in her voice.  I’ve since thought of many a response I might have made, but I know the opportunity is gone.  And I’ve wondered what it is that makes some people so judgmental.

On another occasion, not too long ago, we were returning from After Five, and were joined in the elevator by neighbours from our floor, people we rarely run into.  They keep pretty much to themselves, but we see them out walking from time to time.

“Greetings, neighbour,” the man said, pointedly checking to make sure I’d pressed the right button for the elevator.

“Hello,” I replied.

“I see you’ve been downstairs drinking,” he continued.  “We’ve been out for a long walk, our second of the day, I might add.”  His wife stared at the floor.

“Wow!” I replied, feigning admiration.  “We were out earlier, too.  But I don’t try to walk when I’m drinking.  Afraid of falling down.”  It was the first retort that sprang to mind.

Silence accompanied us to the twentieth floor where we went our separate ways.

“That was childish,” my wife chided gently as we entered our suite.  “But I loved it!”

It mystifies me as to why people are like that.  And I can never understand why they don’t take part in the myriad activities and events offered here.

“It was childish,” I conceded.  “But people like that bug me.  Instead of being con-do’s, like we are, they’re con-don’ts.  Where’s the fun in that?  And why do they condemn us for taking advantage of what’s here?”

For some reason, these incidents reminded me of my long-ago confusion about condoms and condos, and the linguistic lesson I suffered through.

“You know what?” I said to my wife.  “People like that aren’t living in a condo, or a condominium.  They’re living in a condo-minimum!

And on that note, we had another glass of wine with dinner.

Manic Manifestations

This era of gender fluidity in which we live presents some complicated situations for elderly gentlemen—among whom I am more and more often numbered.

By gender fluidity I mean two things.  First, the long-time conversation around the issue of feminism, and what it means to be a woman in today’s world.  The topic is not new, having been a part of our public discourse through most of my adult life.

Gloria Steinem, a journalist and activist, defined feminism as a recognition of “the equality and full humanity of women and men.”  Bell Hooks, an author and activist, explained it as “a movement to end sexism, sexist exploitation and oppression.”

The second aspect arises from the increasing awareness and sometimes reluctant acceptance of people’s choices respecting their sexual orientation.  The initials LGBTQ (Lesbian/Gay/Bisexual/Transgender/Queer/Questioning) were unheard of, at least in my circles, not so long ago.

Mind you, the issues confronting people who question their gender identities are not new.  But the open, public conversation about them is a fairly recent development.

My viewpoint has always been live and let live, and I have never questioned the sincerity of those whose inclination leads them to follow a different path than I.  Believing us all equal under the sun, I support those who agitate for equality among the genders; for recognition of gender identity; for a rethinking of what it is that makes us human; and especially for acknowledging what differentiates us as men and women.

But such issues do lead to complicated adjustments for me, an older man who cleaves to the old ways, who has never doubted or lamented the fact that I am male.  Not privileged, not ascendant; just male.

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I refer here to alterations to our language that seem to assail me for doing what I have always done.  The changes involve substituting the word man for parts of otherwise perfectly understandable words, creating a verbal-portmanteau previously unknown to our language.

For example, when I sit down now, on a shared sofa or bus seat, I may be accused of manspreading, the act of sitting with my knees apart.  This, I assure you, is less a hostile statement on my part, and more a search for comfort.  I intend no offense by it, but now increasingly find myself trying to shrink into as small a space as I can possibly occupy.

If I am asked to account for this conditioned behaviour, I might be accused of mansplaining, which is apparently a less than satisfactory justification.  Implied is the notion that I am merely defensively defending an unsustainable position.

Occasionally I find myself in a cluster of other men at a social gathering, enjoying our respective insights into politics, sports, or someone’s latest fishing trip.  It’s never too long before one of our fair companions happens by to ask how long we plan to carry on our manversation.  It feels like a putdown…or mandown!

But when we dare to get involved in a mixed-company discussion, and if one of us turns the talk in a different direction, we could be accused of manjacking the conversation.

I feel sometimes as if I’m being managed unfairly, or manipulated, even manhandled by those who resent what they assume is my inherent sense of masculine superiority.  They come across as manic in their correctness.

If I, perchance, did consider myself superior, it wouldn’t be because I’m a man; rather, it would be due intellectual brilliance, sparkling wit, or matinee-idol appearance.  Alas, given that none of these is true, I have long accepted the reality of my pedestrian, mundane maleness.

Perhaps it’s time I just man up and live with the new realities.  But that feels so…so…mandescending!

Is It Still?

Even at this late stage in my life, there are still so many questions and so few answers.

For example, is golf still golf if one doesn’t walk the course?  Since retiring, I have devoted countless hours to flailing away at a little white ball, following it down fairways that are too narrow, poking and prodding it close enough to the hole that I can pick it up—a gimme in golf parlance.

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But I almost never walk the course.  Instead, I ride a golf cart along paved pathways, across swaths of mowed grass, stopping too often by bunkers full of granulated sand.  The only exception is when I fail to hit a rider—more golf parlance for a shot that doesn’t travel far enough to warrant climbing back aboard the cart to ride to the next shot.

Golf is a game invented to test one’s physical, mental, and psycho-emotional endurance, and it has forever involved walking.  If one drives the course, is it still golf?

Another question concerns an issue that plagues me in moments of idleness, of which there are many.  Is it still okay for a gentleman to hold a door open for a lady?  And if one does, should one expect a ‘thank-you’ as the lady sweeps through?

More often than not, I rush ahead when in the company of ladies to man the door.  Being not the most graceful of people at my advancing age, I frequently bang into someone in my haste.  Or regrettably, I approach the door from the wrong side, making it necessary to push in front of my companions to open it.  Once in a while, I’ve even been known to let go of the door too soon (usually because the strength in my arm gives out), which provides a none-too-gentle bump on the derriere of the unfortunate lady caught on the threshold.  I rarely hear a smiling Thank you!

A third example has recently become a concern.  Is it still acceptable for one such as I to look at pretty young women?  During a lifetime of doing so, I’ve gone from being considered precocious in my pre-teens, to flirtatious in high school; from admiring in my early working years, to bold in middle-age; from cute in my early senior years, to…what?  Lecherous?

Now, when so many pretty girls are the age of my granddaughters, is it still okay to appreciate their youth and beauty?

Despite the fact I’m a grandfather, I continue to be plagued by these questions.  For instance, there’s the matter of leaving one’s bed unmade after getting up in the morning.  You know, as long as no one is expected to drop by.  Or is one supposed to honour the teachings of one’s mother even now, so many years later?

Though she’s been gone many a year, I still imagine her tread on the stairs, coming to inspect my bedroom before breakfast.  The stripes on the bedspread had to be straight, from the pillow to the footboard; the hem had to be off the floor, and uniformly so, along the length of the bed; and, although I never had to bounce a dime off it in military fashion, the top had better be smooth, with no wrinkles showing through.

Is it still necessary to make one’s bed every morning?

There are so many questions!  If it doesn’t have a hole in the middle, is it still a doughnut?  Is it still correct to say one dials a number, now that there’s no longer a dial on the phone?  Is it still de rigueur to doff one’s hat in an elevator, when so many around us eat in restaurants with their hats on?  Is it still the Olympics with no truly amateur athletes extant?

I know there are folks who could not care less about such questions.  Political correctness has mandated the answers in many cases, anyway, and general indifference often covers the rest.  But how else might I occupy my time, except by considering such weighty matters?

Is it still Sunday if not everyone goes to church?  Is it still winter if there’s no snow?  Is it still cream if it’s made from petroleum products?  Is it still my car if I’m only leasing it?  Is it still democracy if hardly anybody votes?

I don’t remember having the inclination in years gone by to ponder these questions.  Or perhaps I thought I had all the answers back then.  Regardless, I now regale friends—those who hang around long enough—with rhetorical queries and enquiries, in hopes they’ll engage with me in the pursuit of answers.  I’ve chosen to interpret their glazed eyes and pained expressions as a devoted effort to help.

The greatest barrier to learning, I read a long time ago, is the failure to ask.  And so I do.  Endlessly. Repetitively.  Annoyingly, even.

Is it still okay?

Secret Valentine

In a recent long-distance telephone conversation, one of my granddaughters reminded me that Valentine’s Day is coming round again.

She didn’t ask if I would be her valentine again this year, as I have been for most of her six years, which would have been nice. No, instead she mentioned that she’d be giving a valentine to every one of her classmates at school.

“Every one of them?” I exclaimed, mildly astonished. “Don’t you have, like, one special valentine?”

“No, Gramps,” she replied. “That’s not how it works. In grade one, you give everybody a valentine. All the kids do.”

I wondered how many youngsters there were in her class for whom she was planning to buy a valentine card. After all, how many valentines can a six-year-old handle?

“How can one person have so many valentines? I protested. “Being somebody’s valentine is supposed to be a special thing. Won’t people wonder why you’re giving everyone a card?”

“Gramps! You don’t understand! They won’t know who gave the valentines to them. Mummy’s going to help me print ‘Guess Who?’ on all of them. My name won’t be there.”

“Okay, wait a minute, l’il guy,” I said. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to give valentines to every kid in your class…”

“And my teacher,” she cut in.

“And your teacher,” I continued. “But, you’re not going to put your name on them, so nobody will know that you gave them a valentine. I don’t get it.”

“Oh, they’ll know, Gramps. Everybody knows. They just won’t know which valentine I gave them. That’s the fun of it.”

That’s the fun of it! Back when I was a kid, the fun of it was in deciding whom I would ask to be my special valentine. To which little girl would I dare to offer a valentine card? Who would accept it without laughter? Or worse, not accept it at all?

There was a certain delicious risk involved back then, a risk that made the whole exercise worthwhile. After all, asking someone to be your special valentine meant you were sort of sweet on her (or him, if you were a girl).

But, times change, and so do valentine cards. Now, they don’t ask someone to be your valentine; instead, they proclaim ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’! They’ve become indistinguishable from birthday cards, for goodness’ sake.

Anyway, I wished my granddaughter well with her plans. I harboured the faint hope that perhaps I’d still receive one from her—with her name on it!

Afterwards, I kept thinking about our conversation. Anonymous valentine cards made no sense to me. But, my granddaughter had stated, “They’ll know…”

Well, who’s to say? Maybe they will. It occurred to me that I’ve always sent anonymous, loving wishes to my own two daughters—back when they were growing up, and even now, as they raise their own children. I never thought of that as silly.

At night, after they were asleep, I had the habit of whispering in their ears, to tell them how much I loved them. They hardly stirred as I did it, and they never mentioned it the following day. And, every day now, when thoughts of them cross my mind, I still send little messages of love their way. I always believed that, somehow, they would know I was telling them. Anonymously, as it were.

So, maybe my wee granddaughter is right. Perhaps it isn’t such a ridiculous notion. In fact, I’m even hoping to receive a valentine this year from ‘Guess Who?’

I’ll know.