60 seems younger than 57.
57 is my Heinz year. It’s one of my three food slogan years.
You get three food slogan years. You know that, right?
11 (herbs and spices), 31 (flavors) and 57 (Heinz).
11 is when you come into your own, become a young adult, begin to navigate the chaos, at the start of the adventure;
at 31, you accept the responsibilities of adulthood, begin to establish stability and reputation;
and at 57, you put it all together, the total of innocence and experience, enthusiasm and perseverance, and enjoy the life you’ve built.
57 was originally the number of pickle varieties offered by Heinz; in actuality they offered more than 60, but 5 was Henry Heinz’s lucky number and 7 was his wife’s. Yes, I too thought they might have aspirationally used “72”, but his deep seated honesty wouldn’t let him. In any case, I’ve been the spring chicken, and tasted life’s sweetness and frigidity, and am now prepared to focus on the spice of life.
It’s my birthday. And yes, I invented the food slogan year thing, but that doesn’t make it any less true, and you are free to incorporate it in any way you wish with no fear of legal reprisal.
I just found out that your nose and ears keep growing your entire life, but they are not really growing as much as stretching, because collagen and cartilage are subject to gravity, moving them a fraction of a millimeter downward every year, like cathedral windows.
We are not made of stone. There are specific and non-blame oriented reasons that clothes don’t fit anymore.
I’m actually in better shape that I was 26 years ago.
This is less a statement concerning my current condition than a criticism of my former one, and less focused on my overall health than my actual shape, the one someone might outline in charcoal or pencil if I volunteered as a life drawing model.
26 years ago I worked 12 hour days 6 days a week and had yet to discover the effects of gluten or lack of sleep. Before long, I looked as if I was stealing one of those balloons you can twist into animals by hiding it around my waist, inside my shirt, just above my belt.
In my 30’s, someone took a photo of me playing football in the park with my shirt off.
(The red flags are:
I have my shirt off outside my house and
I’m playing football.)
I don’t know what I was doing, but somebody took a picture of me from the back and it was the kind of thing that motivates one to action. It looked like it could have been handled in a simple way, well, love-handled in a simple way: I just looked kind of wrinkled around the middle, like a sock that had ridden down, so for a few months I tried to stand up taller as if my height was the problem, and not my width.
I eventually discovered my gluten thing, which was very transformational as it included my Guinness thing and my Cinnabon thing.
Getting enough sleep, water, and exercise don’t really read as “wisdom”, but it’s hard to do. And eating right means learning how to cook, because convenience always costs more that we pay. And no matter what, time does seem to catch up with us. I fell on a skateboard (read: plummeted from a skateboard at about 15 mph) over five years ago and still have a crik in my neck that a cloudy day exacerbates: in much the same vein I’m finding that the choices I made during my Kentucky Fried Chicken years (11 to 31) formed the base of situations dealt with during my Baskin Robbins phase (31 to 56) which will no doubt have to be dealt with in my Heinz years.
I couldn’t shake that photograph of me leaping up to catch a ball and the sides of me moving up a bit afterward, so about 20 years ago I dealt with these emotions in song form. Think Tom Waits, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan… the American Storyteller, conveying the spirited life of the Everyman. I mean, think that, while you’re listening, because I’m none of those people, but y’know, #squadgoals.
(I was going to create an EP with several songs on it and call it my “Birthday Suite”, but I settled on this one and tried to make it extra spooky.)
When I was 25 it seemed that I could eat most anything
Like a chocolate twizzler, I was scrawny.
I lived on rice, bread and ramen…whatever came my way, back then
(mostly, this was ‘cause I had no money.)
Like most boys in the USA, I would usually start my day at the mirror lookin’ at my muscles.
I’d count off pull-ups - 1 to 10 and do some sit-ups (now and then)
Like that Jean-Claude Van Damme who’s from Brussels.
But one mornin’ last year, my jaw hit the floor
‘Cause there were lots more “muscles” than before
Then my gut began to illuminate
And a mournful sound did eminate.
OoooooOooooo. Oooooooo....
Thus the victim I’ve now been
Of horrors all too easily seen
Like some monster writ by Mary Shelly
For all the junk food I did know
Although eaten years ago
Now are ghosts inside my Haunted Belly.
I raised my chest and tucked my chin to pull the haunted portion in
But it was getting harder everyday.
Good friends never asked my why I began to jellify
They just smiled and turned their eyes away.
Then me and the fellas, back ‘round last fall
Were playing around with an old football
When suddenly I heard a gurgly BOO
We had our shirts off in the sun
Which is how I found out every one of
their bellies seemed to be haunted too!
Although the past is dead and gone
Something of it lingers on
for now I’m carrying down below
delicious meals that I ate years ago!
Those chili dogs and pre-sweetened tea
Kinda just snuck up on me
While I was flippin’ channels on the telly
When the ghosts found space they lacked
They started moving to the back
Thus expanding out my haunted belly.
Yes, every bite that’s touched my hand
Is at a party down in Tummyland
A dear-departed dinner dance that I can
barely squeeze in these suit pants.
OoooooOooooo! Oooooooo!
So now I’m on a fitness spree
to set those little spectres free
so they’ll fly off to some ethereal deli.
And by spring, like a miracle my shape may be less spherical.
And that’s the story of
my Haunted Belly.
The Closet of Dorian Gray.