Monday, March 10, 2014

Five Things I Love to Hate

1.     Kale – and all those other odd-ball vegetables that were not part of my dinner plate until Dr. Oz showcased them on his program. They are hard to like. I’ve learned to stew kale with onions, garlic, and chicken stock, and it tastes okay, but it will NEVER replace the affection I feel for a can of Del Monte corn swimming in a stick of melted butter. 
2.    Reality TV – no, no, and no.  I am not interested in watching people prostitute their private lives for the sake of TV entertainment, unless of course, we start televising the lives of our elected politicians.  Now there is an intriguing idea. 
3.    Politics – and the shysters that run our government.  I usually vote for the candidate with the least amount of dirt and the most amount of integrity (or what passes for a semblance of it). Too bad we can’t stew them with onions and garlic in chicken stock to make them more palatable.  
4.    Exercise – and dieting and a slow metabolism and aging – all the stuff that makes it difficult for me to enjoy my golden years with a doughnut in one hand and a diet soda in the other. I deserve living the last third of my life without measuring every step, bite, and fat gram. I know it beats the alternative – fossilizing, wrinkling, and dying, but – geez – do people really think “kale chips” are a viable substitute for Ruffles?
5.    Annual physical exams. You know which I mean – pelvic exams, mammograms, and especially colonoscopies.  Those intrusive exams where people half my age look, inspect, and poke at body parts that I usually cover with underwear, anatomy that no one should trespass without a frank discussion about contraceptives and a firm marital commitment. I know they are necessary, but really?  I have no idea why Income Tax Returns came to mind here among the discussion of colonoscopies, but it seemed to fit here best, among uncomfortable, annual physical exams.  

I have many more things I love to hate, but I shall save them for a future blog. To be continued . . . . 

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