Raquel Martina Martinez

I recently read a book on body language, ingesting enough info to make me a dangerous armchair expert. What impressed me more than the ability to tell if someone is lying or flirting with me (or both at the same time) was how attitude or posture affects the brain. For instance, if you dread doing something, admit it out loud but then counter it with an affirmation that you are going to do it anyway. Do it with a smile. These simple actions trigger measureable chemical and electrical impulses in your brain that actually help you get through the cumbersome task. Gloomy and depressed? Smile.   Hate your job? Straighten your shoulders, take a deep breath, and trudge forward.   The mere affectation of a positive attitude and the brain responds in kind. The reverse is also true.   If you dread a task, whine about it. Continuously. Keep on frowning. Feeling unloved? Hunch your shoulders, make a hangdog face, think sad thoughts.   Before long, you’ll be watching The Remains of the Day or

My grandson reached down and found a hole in his comfy pair of socks.   He worked on it and worked on it, trying to make the hole bigger.     “Don’t do that.   I can fix it.” “That’s okay.   Mama can buy me more.” His older brother hadn’t worn a favorite shirt in a long time. “It’s missing a button.” “Bring it over.   I can fix it.” He looked at me as if I were speaking in tongues. We chip a tiny corner on our favorite cereal bowl. We accidentally bleach a white spot on a new shirt. We don’t wear a dress or a pair of pants because we don’t have time to mend a rip. And they go into the recycle or the donation pile.   Ignored. We do the same with food. We order too much lunch, we make too much for a meal, we serve ourselves more than we can eat at one sitting.   We keep leftovers only long enough until we can pitch them in the trash without guilt.    What waste:   one tiny imperfection; one slight abuse, and we discard, erase, start over. I darned my grandson’s socks.   I appliquéd a r

I want a new drug. I am the oldest anyone in my immediate family has gotten without having had a stroke or heart attack. According to my internist, I am literally a time bomb set to go off at any second. She scours my lab reports every six months for any slight increase in blood pressure, cholesterol, or blood glucose levels, then she prescribes light doses of Lipitor and Avapro and heavy dosages of exercise. Not just any exercise – she wants me to do aerobic exercise.   One that don’t cost too much Or come in a pill There is a reason why the word EXERCISE consists of eight letters – it’s a double four-letter cuss word.   I don’t care that it’s good for everything, including the failing economy of this nation.   Name it; it cures it (or delays it):   aging, anxiety, arthritis, blood pressure, cancer, cholesterol, depression, dementia, diabetes, flexibility, heart problems, immune systems, lung capacity, sexual dysfunction, sleep disorders, yadda, yadda, yadda. So what? Not every

HoneyBunch asked me out several times before I agreed to meet him in person. We swapped emails and phone calls, but I was hesitant to take our relationship any further. It was a little lopsided at first:   he proposed on the first date; I, on the other hand, kept telling him after each one that it was our last. Somewhere in there HoneyBunch’s persistence and patience overcame my persnicketiness and paranoia. Also, when I tell people that I suspect God had a hand in this, they think I am being poetic, but it is the truth. Two months before (while I was perusing my pathetic pool of gentlemen callers on eHarmony), I had a serious conversation with my Creator. I let Him know it was okay if there was no one “out there” for me.   I was grateful for all the blessings He had given me. To ask for more would be greedy.   But just in case (after all, He’s omniscient), if He saw someone who would be an excellent fit for me, I sure would appreciate if He nudged him my way. Only excellent