With red-rimmed eyes, he said, “You’re either a hunk, a drunk, or a chunk. Those are your choices.”
My friend’s husband had just returned the night before from a stint in the Middle East where he’s a contractor. He goes for three months at a time and then is home for three months. He’s done this for a while now, maybe seven or eight years.
He has lost a lot of weight since I’ve last seen him, even though he was never a big guy to begin with. Now he looks like a greyhound. I asked him what happened. What precipitated the change?
He said, “Well, when you’re stuck over there, you’re either eating, drinking, or you’re working out. That’s pretty much all there is to do.”
“Sooo??,” I encouraged.
“Well” he said. “I’ve never been a workout guy. So I ate and drank.”
This admission made me laugh again.
I asked, “Ok, so why the change now?”
He said, “Well, I’d go over there and not do anything for three months, and then I’d come back and try and work on the farm, and I’d be exhausted doing the littlest thing.”
Putting it all together, I asked, “So you started working out so you could stay ‘farm fit’?”
“Yep,” he said. “Now I’m not exhausted when I come home and I can hit the ground running.”
Bahaha!! Farm-fit! Of course!
He added, “Yeah, I was getting a little chunky-drunky there for a while.”
Now I was howling with laughter.
(And I have a new phrase to add to my repertoire. Chunky-Drunky! Bahaha!)
He also traded the beer for tequila instead.
Smiling, he said, “You know, tequila is kind of like a digestive anyway.”
“Bahaha!!! Of course it is!!”
I rolled my eyes at this paper-thin justification.
I said, “Yeah, that’s what I told myself in my twenties, too!”
He just smiled conspiratorially.
Needless to say, he arrived home in the middle of the night, got up early, fixed the tractor so he could start mowing, then fixed broken fence boards, and did the million other repairs that farms require.
Only his glassy eyes gave it away.
He said, “Yeah, it’s 2:30 a.m. my time right now, so I’m a little tired.”
I don’t think I could have done it—arrive in the middle of the night after flying for a bazillion hours, spend the day doing physical labor, and then meet a bunch of people for dinner and be coherent, let alone jovial.
The headline on the news this morning was “Chicken causes cancer.” Bahaha!! Now I’ve heard it all! I just want to know, who’s next on the chopping block (no pun intended)? When they put the noose around coffee’s neck last year, I really quit listening. That attack felt sacrilegious and confirmed my belief that everything causes cancer if you examine it long enough.
Even breathing. (A.k.a. pollution).
I can’t help but think this is some kind of industry backlash against the chicken-sandwich shortage marketing-sensation spearheaded by Popeye’s that occurred a couple of weeks ago. Less people will be lining up for that elusive sandwich now! #ChickenWars
Good or bad, that’s how my brain works these days. I believe very little of what I hear, on the news or otherwise. The more dogmatic the principle purported, the more I call bullshit. My first impression is to try and figure out what the angle is. What idea are they trying to peddle and what are they trying to gain? What’s the motivation, the goal?
Cynical, I know.
Words to Live By
Obviously, the lesson here is tequila is good for you, chicken isn’t, and being Farm-Fit is always better than being Chunky-Drunky.
Sounds good to me!
#drinktequila #bockbockbock #farmfit #dontbelieveeverythingyouhear