Tag Archives: wimp

Croup

Croup: (n) any condition of the larynx characterized by a hoarse cough and difficult breathing.

One of the more annoying aspects of writing a column or posting a blog on the Internet is what seems to be the incessant need to talk about life beginning with how it relates to yourself.

I will be honest—I don’t think I am as interesting as other folks do.

I don’t know whether this is even possible, but I have often felt I was boring myself.

But when I saw the word “croup” today, I couldn’t resist relating a piece of personal identity concerning the condition.

Up until five years of age, I was sickly.

Chubby, round-faced and ill. (Very attractive for young parents.)

Every time I caught a cold, it went into my chest and I mustered a hacking cough which eventually made it difficult to breathe. So my mother often rushed me into the bathroom, turned on all the faucets with hot water, and sat there with me in the steam, hoping my croup would clear.

It was so bad one night that the town doctor was called to come to our little bungalow.

He  felt compelled to give me a shot of adrenalin in the heart to keep me among the living.

Yet somewhere along the line—about the age of six—I began to improve. It was a good thing, because on top of my croup, I was festered with an inability to master swallowing pills, and the only real treatment for my condition were these huge, white sulfa tablets, which greatly resembled horse pills.

So yes—because I could not swallow them, I had to chew them up—two at a time, every four hours.

When the reprieve came and “croup” decided to become a part of my past, I was jubilant. Later on we discovered that because my dad was a cigarette smoker, the air quality in our little home was not conducive to my fussy lungs.

So even though I shared this story with you in candor, and the years have certainly passed, and I have proven myself to be more balanced for the human environment…

I still feel like a Willy Wonka Wimp.

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Compatible

Compatible: (adj) two things able to exist or occur together without conflict.

I sat patiently listening to the young psychologist try to explain to those who had gathered for what had turned into a boring lecture about what it truly means to “be compatible.”

He was well-studied (which always guarantees a certain amount of error).

He said, “It is important for a couple to find the things they share in common and to celebrate their differences.”funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I don’t know whether I was the only one in the room who thought, “Oh, my God, kill me before I ever have to be in that discussion.”

But the tepid response he received and the lack of questions let me know that the audience had moved far beyond this young man’s learning–into the actual world of doing.

Having a relationship with anyone or anything is certainly about being compatible. But it is foolish to over-complicate the scenario.

Simply stated.. do your plugs fit?

If it’s a romantic situation, it will be necessary to find out if you like each other’s lips, each other’s hands, each other’s genitals, each other’s odors, each other’s habits and each other’s…others.

There will be adjustments. After all, as in the case of plugs, two identical plugs do not hook up. They require different ends to their means.

So sexually, a woman does not have to be a dynamo, nor does a man need the largest penis in the Sahara Desert. They just have to find out how their plugs hook up and work on adaptors.

Likewise, how do your plugs hook up on finance? She spends, he’s thrifty. That is completely compatible as long as she has money that is hers and he doesn’t lament how she uses it.

How do your plugs hook up about raising kids? She’s a strong disciplinarian, he’s a wimp. So when there are wimpy issues, let him head the class. When the little turds need stronger language, let Mama do the job.

Over-complicating human relationships always makes us believe that we’re incompatible.

“Black people can’t be around white people. White people like organ music and black people like tambourines.” It is possible to play the tambourine with an organ, and it’s also historical to rock your organ out a little bit.

Compatible is not difficult: check your plugs. Wiggle them around. Find a way to make them fit.

Nothing on Earth is really natural–everything requires a bit of work.

Otherwise, we all would be perniciously lazy.

 

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Coat

Coat: (n) an outer garment worn for warmth

Is it possible I was allergic? No–that’s not the word.

I certainly couldn’t stand to have a coat on until… well, very recently.

All through my teen years, my mother insisted I wear one to school, and I always removed it within ten feet from the door of our home, convinced, I think, that I would break out in a rash if I continued to wear it.

I don’t know whether it was a case of macho, or whether there was a part of me that believed that only wimps and Mama’s boys wore such outer protection.

In the winter months in Ohio, I went with short sleeves.

I once found a sweater I liked for a while–but then my older brother claimed it as his own and I never saw it again.

There was something powerful about remaining chilly. Even as a man, in the wintertime I would find a sunshiny day and play tennis in shorts and a tank top.

I always loved the question, “Aren’t you cold?”

Hell, no. I’m hot, Mama.

I guess that was the thing. I suppose I was trying to communicate to the females around me that I was a furnace. A blazing fire of love.

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.

Maybe I hated the confinement. Because I was chubby, coats always fit me like a straight jacket–especially if I zipped them up. They were so tight I felt the garment was holding my organs in.

But of late I have changed my mind. The feeling of warmth coming on your skin, suddenly protecting it from chill and frost–it’s very comforting.

I enjoy it.

But, while wearing a coat, I still feel like Wimpy Boy Billy.

 

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Boxer

Boxer: (n) a person who takes part in the sport of boxing

In 1976, I went out to see “Rocky” when it first came to the theaters.Dictionary B

I had never thought about boxing.

Matter of fact, I had a disdainful view of it, as some sort of practice by “ignorant folk from the poor side of town.”

But Rocky changed everything.

Watching two well-oiled men pummel each other made me wonder what it would be like to buy some boxing gloves and just goof around with them. So a friend and I picked some up at a local sporting goods store, (by the way, they were quite expensive) and cleared out an area of his garage to simulate a ring and decided to find out what it was like to “get punchy.”

We started slowly.

It went along pretty well. I punched him in the arm, he punched me back in the mid-section, and I was thinking, this is really no big deal.

All at once he took a swing at my face. His glove made contact right in the middle of my nose. I could have sworn that it was driven back into my brain, where it lodged and refused to return. It stung, it burned, I couldn’t open my eyes, and blood started pouring out.

My friend was horrified, apologizing in every manner he had learned during his very proper upbringing.

I finally got the bleeding stopped, but it was two days before I got rid of the headache.

I don’t know why people want to punch each other in the face.

But I will tell you that it is not pleasant–and is not recommended for anyone who might discover he’s a wimp.

 

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Antidote

dictionary with letter AAntidote: (n) a medicine taken or given to counteract a specific poison.

Sometimes I do dorky things just to make sure that people don’t believe I have become divine overnight through a particularly good sleep cycle.

Actually, it is my penchant in life to attempt new things, which always opens the door to the possibility of playing the fool.

I went with my wife and children to Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico, where my mother-in-law had retired.

She did not like me.

I don’t know whether it was something actually problematic between us, or if she felt the need to act out the typical plotline for a sitcom between son-in-law and mother-in-law.

She had a house on the beach. So one morning I took the children out to enjoy the ocean, only to discover that the entire landscape was covered with dead jellyfish. Unwilling to be deterred from our sea-time pleasure, and since the jellyfish were up on the shore and not in the water, I let the kids splash around while I sat, carefully watching them,

Meanwhile, more dead and dying jellyfish were washing onto the shore. I didn’t think much about it, until one of them brushed up against me, and with his last aspiration, stung me on the leg.

It didn’t hurt. Kind of a magnified bee sting. But in no time at all, the wound began to swell and I was sick.

It was a strange sense of ill will. I knew I was in trouble.

I made my way up to the house with the kids and told my wife and mother-in-law what had happened. Being a great veteran of the region and the sea, my mother-in-law grabbed some Adolph’s meat tenderizer and spread it on my wound, telling me “that always works.”

It didn’t. I was getting sicker and sicker. My mother-in-law told my wife that I was just being a wimp.

So I finally had to bypass old mom and asked my wife to call the local doctor. He arrived about fifteen minutes later with his satchel, saw the sting and reached in and pulled out one vial of what had to be several hundred of antidote.

He explained that some people are just allergic to jellyfish. By this time I was quite frightened. He calmed me down, gave me an injection, and in a matter of about an hour, I was just fine.

It amazed me that something so small could make you that sick, and that something even smaller could make you better.

I was grateful for the antidote.

But unfortunately, my mother-in-law still thought I was a wimp.

 

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Antacid

dictionary with letter A

Antacid: (n.) a preventative to correct acidity, usually in the stomach.

All of us human mortals suffer from some form of “wimp factor.”

It’s not easy to admit, especially if you’re preoccupied with the notion of appearing macho or self-reliant.

But honestly, one of the more endearing factors about being a part of this race is that when we get candid with one another about our foolishness and silliness, we can really be quite charming.

I think the first time I was consciously aware of having a bad case of indigestion was in my early twenties. I had never even considered antacid or assistance of any sort for my digestive tract.

Being a silly goose, I assumed that the rumblings in my chest were the onset of a heart attack. Even though it would be unusual for anyone of my age to be plagued by such a tragedy, I convinced myself that I was the exception to the rule, and rather than having ingested a very greasy piece of smoked sausage, I had clogged up an artery which was trying to keep me from breathing.

So every time I felt the little twinge of pain, I frantically took deep breaths to make sure I would maintain consciousness, and in doing so hyperventilated, only increasing my worry, which led to having an anxiety attack–which, by the way, feels similar to the heart variety.

It was so silly–especially when I found myself in an emergency room and they poured out some white liquid in a small cup, and I asked them if it was for my heart. The nurse calmly replied, “No. It’s Di-gel. For your belly ache.”

I only spent half an hour there, and received some giggles from the attending physician, who told me that if I didn’t lose weight, I probably would be in there with a heart attack in thirty years or so, but I was safe for the time being.

I know there are people who have to use antacids all the time, but basically, if you don’t eat too much fatty food while also consuming large amounts of fluid, you can usually avoid gastric distress.

And if you do happen to have a twinge in your belly that radiates up into your chest, don’t immediately assume that you’re dying.

You are one belch away from salvation.

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Abrazos

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Abrazo: (n.): an embrace.

Yeah, but what KIND of embrace?

In all my years of traveling on the road, I have discovered that there are basically four types of hugs. (Well, five if you want to count the one you do in bed with the person you love to generate romance.)

But let us say four types of hugs that are permitted fully clothed in public:

The first one is the quick embrace, placing hands around the neck, careful that torsos don’t meet. This is normally  practiced in Hollywood, church circles and at family reunions where adolescents are accosted by grandmas.

Then there is the show of affection where someone comes up from the rear and hugs your back–usually fairly quickly as a means of encouragement when you’re heading into the dentist’s office, getting ready to take a test, or are on your way to get your income taxes done.

The third hug is when someone holds their arms out like a great Russian, Jewish mother and welcomes you in for a full body encounter. Of course, the difficulty with this one is that once interlocked,  one has to figure out how long to hold it–just short of ridiculous, but beyond nervous. After all, the first one to release is the wimp.

And finally, the other hug that I became familiar with by participating in sports is what you might refer to as the manly chest bump. It is the acceptable form of masculine communication of affection without communicating ANY notion of homosexual tendencies. It’s more like “pecs meeting pecs,” with some pounding on the back by hands quickly releasing, ending in some sort of ridiculous high-five.

So of the particular ways of connecting that are available, obviously, the bedroom intertwining is the most pleasant.

I guess when you get a word like abrazos–with the ambiguous definition of “an embrace”–you have to establish the quality of the embrace and the style–by how much you would elongate the vowels in the word.

For instance, it could be an “abrazos.” Short, brief antiseptic.

Or it could be an “abra-z-o-o-s.” We’re gettin’ warmer.

Or finally, it could be an “a-bra-a-a-z-o-o-os.” Boom. Touchdown.

I like hugs. I don’t particularly like it, however,  when people inform me BEFORE they hug me that they are a “hugging person.” It takes away some of the spontaneity and specialness of being hugged. Yeah, it’s kind of a Baskin Robbins embracing philosophy: “Now serving #84.”

But as analytical and critical as you may want to get about two people joining their bodies in closeness, any embrace is a lot better than standing at a distance … and judging each other.