Bob’s goal for living: Don’t be scared to death

It wouldn't surprise me in the least to pick up a magazine and read that some research organization has just discovered that my mother's apple pie wasn't safe to eat.

Our refrigerator door is full of clippings warning us to the hazards of egg yolks, salt, white bread, artificial sweeteners, refined sugar and numerous other commodities which align our pantry shelves.

The kitchen contains numerous contradictory articles which tell me to exercise and not to exercise; to diet and not to diet; to get lots of sleep and not to sleep too much.

Armageddon is just around the corner.  In other words, living is injurious to my health! Other dire reports warn me that our hot water heater is a potential time bomb, that my television set will radio activate me and those handy dandy aerosol cans I've been using lately will destroy the earth's ozone layer and get us burned to a crisp by the sun – assuming, of course, that the sun itself won't peter out.

By nature I'm not a morose worrier.  That's good because lots of researchers say that fussing and fretting can lead to big trouble. I'm glad, I admit, that there are dedicated watchdogs out there alerting me to the dangers facing me each day. As a result I bend my knees when I lift; I fasten my seatbelt religiously and I don't pet stray dogs.

Somehow it's become popular to accentuate the negative and to emphasize the 30,000 or more ways to hurry myself off to the Great Security Blanket in the Sky.

I can find many ways to achieve reasonable health practices without adding to our mental illness statistics.  I hear that psychiatrist's couches hardly ever have a chance to cool down anymore as ailing folks rush to their doctors in great numbers.

Longevity is a worthy goal, I think, so I don't want to be scared to death before I achieve it.  But I keep getting reports that bathtubs are lethal; that getting out of bed is perilous and that my drinking water has so many parts per million of bad stuff that I'm tempted to turn to soda pop or beer.  Of course, when I read what carbonated beverages and alcohol will do to my system, my quandary is magnified.

When it comes to recreation, the messengers of misery are especially forbidding. Tennis is too strenuous for a guy my age. Hunting is more dangerous than World War II and even Tiddly Winks can give you hangnails, and only a kamikaze pilot would venture out on a skate board or a motorcycle.

I should try to avoid all of these things which hastens my departure from this vale of tears!

© 2010 Robert F. Karolevitz

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