My Unicorn Stage

Observe as I gracefully ignore my neglect to this blog.

Poof! Ignored.

All of us have special qualities that make us unique. For some, it's their amazing abilities to bend metal with their minds, or solve tricky math problems. Others can draw good, or turn their eyelids inside out. I discovered my special quality about a year ago. While this special attribute of mine had been periodically rearing its ugly head for several years, it wasn't until this time last year that I learned it was just a special part of being me. Imagine my delight. 

If only this special feature allowed me to do that Vulcan thing with my four fingers, or slurp my spit back into my mouth just before it hit the ground... that would be wonderful. But, sadly my unique quality has nothing to do with cool and useless super-human tricks. My special attribute? I grow pimples... really, really big ones... on my face.

In all fairness, they're not technically pimples; they're called Sebaceous Cysts. And boy are they ugly. Imagine the largest pimple you've ever seen. Now magnify that by about ten... and that might be close to the size of these puppies. Thankfully, I only get them once or twice a year. But when I do, the process usually goes something like this:

1. Small red bump that feels a little tender appears on my face, followed by a sinking feeling in my gut and an intense desire to cut my face off. 
2. The bump gradually but dramatically swells in the general area of the cyst, creating a pronounced mound that resembles a scaled down version of Mount Saint Helens.
3. Swelling intensifies, resulting in partial paralysis to my facial expressions, evoking looks of astonishment and terror by all those who behold its horror. 
4. Painful extraction procedure ensues, which usually leads to a grotesque eruption of "matter" that decorates the mirror, walls and ceiling of my bathroom (I know... maybe a bit too graphic, and I should have warned you. My sincerest apologies).

In the end, I look like a gun shot victim with my wife staring blankly and saying, "That was awesome!" 

When the mother of all cysts appeared on my forehead just before vacation last year, I finally sought the guidance of a venerated dermatologist to help me overcome that beast, and learn how I can prevent them from ever happening again. Her response was less than encouraging: "You just have a skin type that likes to produce cysts." 

There it is... my special quality. And I was so hoping for the ability to fly, or stretchy arms. Bummer. 

But here's another gem with this little beauty of a gift - they almost always appear when I have something major on the calendar. Like, for example, the most recent of these cysts which decided to join me a few days before Easter... with me on the schedule to play guitar in our worship band just a few days later. When I would normally want to hide my face from all of humanity, I had to stand in front of thousands of people and play my guitar. Awesome. Thankfully I made it through the weekend with 90% use of my eye brows, and relatively small amounts of swelling. 

But then today I decided to return to my friendly dermatologist and employ her cunning skill and gadgetry to destroy this monster. It was a success. All I remember from the procedure was hearing the nurse use "tootsie roll" as a size reference to that which was extracted from my face. I'll be honest, I was a little proud. 

Here I sit at my computer, forehead still swollen and aching, and thankful that another one of these atrocities is behind me. Yet, I have to be honest that there was a part of me that came to grips with the reality of these cysts through this most recent experience. Rather than get all stressed out about it, I decided that - like it or not - this is just a part of who I am. And really, it could be a lot worse. Why should I hide my face because of a bump? ... a grotesque, scream-inducing, freak-of-nature bump? Sure, it's unsightly. But it's me. Maybe the majestic unicorn felt the same way I did whilst in the presence of simple horses. Maybe it's adorning horn was seen as a monstrosity by those who lacked one. But it's the horn that makes it what it is... beautiful, dignified, and magical. Maybe these cysts are my horns, and I need to hold my head high like the mighty unicorn. 

Then again, I'm sure many a unicorn would have cut that stupid horn off if they could have... and that's what I did.

But now I've said too much.

A Study on Peeling an Orange

Dear Off the Record, 

Today I peeled an orange. This is what I've been reduced to. The sad truth is that I peeled three oranges. Why, you might ask? Because I wanted a snack. 

But I've decided something. Eating an orange is less of a snack, and more of a hobby. It's like whittling a unicorn from a stick. You have to sit there and carve away the peel for several minutes before you finally get to the goods. Honestly, I don't think I've ever shown that level of commitment to any single food item in my life.

And I did this not once, but three times. 

Ah, but alas, my diet only allows me one orange per diem. So I cheated yet again, it would seem. For the record, that third orange was for my wife...and for love.

Of course, I've said too much. 

Sent from my iPad

I May Have Jumped Off the Wagon, But I Did It with Class

There comes a time when you have to step back, assess the situation (there was a momentary snicker when I stopped short of finishing the word assess), and just get real with yourself. The situation being my diet; the assessment being that this is a very half-hearted go, to say the least. 

I'm okay with that.

In my defense, however, I had every intention of sticking with the plan during my meal tonight. Earlier this afternoon, between hunger pangs, I actually thought to myself, "I can do this. I will do this." But that all changed when I received a very unexpected, but very welcome, call from my pastor. His tidings were glad, in deed. On this very night, he possessed one very highly sought-after invitation to an exclusive unveiling of our region's newest and most state-of-the-art healthcare facility, which is set to open to the public in just over a month. For those in North East Indiana, you'll recognize the name Parkview Hospital. Yes, my pastor was inviting me to join him as he attended this extravagant event.  

I accepted without hesitation, knowing full well that delicious food would be in good supply, and all would eat to their fancy. And fancy eating, it was. 

The only catch: I had to wear a suit. A minor set back, as it did restrict my full range of motion of hand-to-mouth in rapid succession; a handicap to which I quickly adapted. 

There was a salad bar, and an array of fresh and exotic fruits. I had none of it. Instead, I had my fill of fancy cheeses, red meat, shrimp cocktail, and fancy cheeses on top of red meat. It was delightful. 

The hospital was pretty neat, too.

But I've said too much. 

Delicious Shame

I awoke this morning to the sound of my stomach trying to out growl my wife's. She won, much to my chagrin. I actually think my stomach is so under-used, it's lost the will to growl. Life could be better.

As miserable as I may be, you can't argue with results. My digital scale revealed that I'm down another one-point-four pounds from yesterday, a trend that is probably coming to a screeching halt after tonight.

Just moments ago, I inhaled a Chipotle burrito without even realizing it...it was like my mouth was on auto-pilot. In a fog, I tried to remember what brought me to such a lowly state. Then it came back to me...my temptress of a wife suggested the food of choice when I was at my worst. Resistance was futile. So I drowned my sorrow with two...no, three...Oreo cookies.

They were double-stuff.

It's okay, though. Thanks to the hormones I'm taking (HCG), I'm pretty sure I would pass a pregnancy test...or fail a pregnancy test, depending on your perspective. That's a post for another time.

I've said too much.

Bitter Fruit

One day in, and I'm convinced this diet was created by Satan, himself. I actually felt guilty for having an extra orange last night. 

And I still haven't acquired the taste for black coffee...it gives you Columbian prison inmate breath. 

After two salads, snacks comprised of strictly fruit, and having to pass on numerous junk food opportunities, life seems to have lost all meaning. Grasping for a way out, I declared that if I hadn't lost 2 lbs by morning, I was done. 

Of course, I lost exactly 2 lbs. Curse my digital scale. 

I've said too much.

Sent from my iPad

The Winter of My Discontent

I appear to love misery...especially if I can document it. I remind you that some time ago I deliberately cut out all caffeine from my life, and brought you along through the journey of my self-inflicted torture. 

A new journey begins today.

You see, I'm a little less than satisfied with my current weight situation. Most people who see me on a regular basis would be surprised by this. But the fact remains that just yesterday morning I tipped the scales at over 200 lbs. That's the most I've ever weighed, to my knowledge. I decided right then and there that it's time to look at my gut in the eye and declare war. So I said to my gut, "I solemnly swear to destroy you, gut." And I will.

So, today I begin a new starvation regimen, also known as a diet. A few changes that have already been made: I'm drinking my caffeinated coffee black (yes, caffeinated - I fell off that bandwagon months ago), and I'll be eating a salad for lunch. Yes. A salad...with the dressing on the side. And no cheese. 

Already I'm wondering what I've become. 

Black coffee. No cheese. No sugar. No spice of life (or fatty foods, as they say in the health industry). These next few weeks will shake me at the very core of my being. And yes, I will be blogging regularly to bring you into my pain. 

I've only just begun.

Sent from my iPad

Hot Mess

The phrase used as the title of this post adequately sums up my coffee experience this morning. What should have been a blissful cup of quality joe, brewed in an extra snooty fashion, quickly became a nightmare.

Splashing, spilling, hands covered in molten java.

While I was lapping the coffee from my hands to avoid more of a mess, I sat my chic travel thermos in one of my many, many cup holders...which happened to be the one in which my wife had spilled coffee the night before, the puddle still fresh. Hands now cleansed of their delicious grime, I gingerly lifted my designer coffee thermos to my mouth for another tasty sip, then whimsically sat the thermos, not in its flooded cup holder, but on my lap, unaware that the bottom was coated in the rich, palatable caffeinated goodness.

The coffee ring on my lap is visible, even now.

So to all those who stood within smelling distance of me today, wondering to themselves, "Why do I smell great coffee, and where can I get some?"

Now you know.

I've said...

...too much.