“Good for you! So, what are these great plans you have?”

“Well, I always make resolutions and then I give up. So, I did some research and I found out that experts say if you’re really serious, you have to write them down. So I got organized. I got all these ‘to-do’ lists, each broken down by priority, category, and deadline. And because we’re more likely to change when we focus on the rewards instead of the work, I’ve listed them in this column, ranking them from one to ten. See?”

“Wow! Those are sure a lot of ‘to-do’ lists. You’re going to get a lot done, huh?”

“Sure am! Let’s look at my ‘health’ list. I want to lose 30 pounds, so I devised a strategy. It’s right here. Step one, clean the kitchen of temptation; you know, get rid of the junk food. Then, go to the store and stock up on range-free, organic, all-natural, non-processed, low fat, low-sodium, high-fiber foods. I’m also buying some of those inert non-reactive, toxin-free pots and pans that let you cook healthier. To keep track of my food, I write down everything I eat in this journal over here, including recording the calorie count, as well as fat, fiber, and protein grams. But, I’m not done! Every Sunday, the family meets to plan out the entire week’s meals in advance, which we goes on this list. That way we have a proper healthy dinner every night. What do you think so far?”

“You sure did think of everything. But at the risk of being practical, how are you going to afford all that?”

“No problem! See, on this register are our financial goals. I meet with an accountant, bookkeeper, and planner every week so we can track each penny we spend, which we record over here. Then I categorize and sub-categorize them — with 64 tags and sub-tags — so I can produce up to 32 daily budget reports. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Oh my! Won’t that take away from time with your family?”

“We thought of that too; we’ve scheduled nightly, very efficient, family meetings. Each person is allotted 15 minutes to say what her or she did that day, what their plans are for tomorrow, ask for help — and of course, discuss our feelings. Then we each make our lists, have a group hug, and away we go. You know, experts agree that family time brings you closer. See, it’s all on this agenda.”

“Yeah, nothing says closeness like family time via stopwatch. Um, do you really think the baby needs a full 15 minutes?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll make a note to change that.”

“I’m very impressed by all this planning. However, I do have one question.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Where are you going to find the time to do all this? I mean — just saying — it seems like a pretty full itinerary, and you already run such a busy life. Something has to give to add in all these activities.”

“You know, you might be right. I hadn’t thought of that. What do you think I should do?”

“Maybe you need to take a look at some of the things you’re doing right now that you first need to stop; you know, so you’ll have some time to do all these new things.”

“Hmmmm. That makes sense. I’ll start a new list right away.”

Not all family reunions are, well, shall we say, “familial.”

Despite the two-dimensional, everything-works-out-in-the-end, sitcom model of American life, some relatives are just not cut from the same cloth. Gatherings can more resemble armed camps across a kitchen table, rather than a joyous reunion of long-parted siblings longing to catch up on the past year’s goings-on.

Alex, her oldest brother, was always hell-bent on proving how much he knew, accuracy be damned. He over-talked, was excessively loud, and foisted his I-could-be-with-someone-more-important-than-you attitude on everyone from the moment he strutted into a room.

She was yin to his yang; righting the “injustice,” alone she would step into the fray and engage. Of course, this further amplified the conflict; but it drove her nuts to let him push his way around, ignoring everyone else’s needs.

This year, however, she would not be sucked into his dark drama vortex. Since her divorce, she was working on accepting things as they were rather than how they “should” be. Therapy, a fitness program, and losing 33 pounds; was allowing her to reclaim her life. She would not let her boorish brother steal that away — not tonight, not again.

Mustering a Herculean effort, she engaged Alex in small talk only, and the family reunion fared better than usual. He jabbed, she sidestepped; he blew hard, she refused to blow back.

Once the clan dispersed, sans spectacle, the quiet of the house collected around her, and she replayed the events in her head. “I should have told him off! He thinks he’s the only one who knows anything! What gives him the right?” Her inner dialog grew more bellicose and she pondered all the things she could have said — but didn’t.

She might be getting in touch with her “better self,” but she was far from “perfect” and she realized how agitated she still was. Sure, she kept the peace, but at what price?

The kitchen clock chimed midnight; yet she was as awake as if she had downed a convenience store’s inventory of energy drinks. Not knowing how to disperse that excess agitation, she found herself nibbling from a pyramid of dark, cubed, walnut fudge blocks that graced the center of the table. As the sweet texture melted in her mouth, she lost track of Alex, floating away on a cloud of sugary goodness.

“I really need to stop eating,” she thought, while reaching for another chocolate block. “It’s wreaking havoc on my diet.” Yet she had to admit, nothing soothed the image of Alex like chocolate.

She could stop right this second, take back control, and be angry; or chow down on fudge mountain, feel great, and look like a blimp. THAT would sure give Alex something to crow about, wouldn’t it?

That’s all it took.

Impulsively, she grabbed the plate, rushed to the sink, and poured into it a cascade of fudge bricks. The thought scampered across her mind to reach in and save a few, but she refused to give in and — while still empowered — brushed the remaining cubes into the drain.

The dilemma remained however, how to deal with her pent-up tension?

She thought of Alex and pictured his smug mug. She imagined his condescending tone, “Now, now, don’t be so emotional.” Her blood boiled again.

Reaching for the garbage disposal switch on the wall, she emphatically, dramatically flipped it, and listened with satisfaction to the grinding from beneath the sink.

“Not this time!” she said as she quieted the racket. “You don’t control me anymore.”

She slept amazingly well.

Dear Santa…

There are some things I’d like for the New Year. I know that’s not within your usual bailiwick, and you’re probably pooped from a long sleigh ride, but if you don’t mind…

First, please give me good health.

My body carries me faithfully from before my birth until my last days. I abuse it and overuse it. I overfeed it and undersleep it. Yet rarely do I appreciate it. Nonetheless, it usually works amazingly well. It doesn’t seem to smile as much as I’d like (and it’s not quite the size I wanted) but in all modesty, it’s pretty cool.

My eyes can enjoy the magnificent pink of a rich sunset. My nose can inhale the deep, full scent of a spicy stew simmering slowly on a blustery winter afternoon. My ears perk up to the reassuring tap-tap-tap of light rain on my roof in the middle of the night. And the touch of a lover’s hand on my skin, can in a moment, calm and excite me at the same time.

Remind me that whatever else I have is worth nothing without my health. When I bend without pain or breathe deeply without effort, make me smile. Let me remember that this is the truest, purest blessing of all. Through this miracle of life, I experience all the universe has to offer.

Secondly, please strengthen my connection to family.

There are those who came before me; and there are those for whom I am responsible whom I will never meet. Even so, we are connected. In that chain, I am a vital link, the entirety of all that has gone before me and the bedrock of generations still unborn. Each in that string is a part of me as I am of them. We are all of the same stuff.

Through the ages and across the miles; today, yesterday, and tomorrow; we will guide each other when we are lost, and we will pick each other up when we fall. Everything I do reflects upon my ancestors and shapes my children of future offspring. I am inextricably connected across time. Remind me each day to take time for my family.

Teach me to be a better friend.

Along my path, I have picked up lasting gems of beauty, some in the oddest and most unlikely places. They vary in color, shape, and age. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but some have faded from memory, yet they all share an inner beauty and spirit to which I find myself drawn.

For each, give me respect. Fill my heart with love at their sight. Make sure I return to them what they so willingly lend to me. Remind me to tell them more often that their lives have brought wonder and joy to mine.

Lastly — but maybe most importantly — give me faith, especially when I feel weak.

At such times, point out I am not alone; my focus has merely narrowed. Remind me that, as my mother used to say, all things work toward the “greater good.” That which seems so bent and twisted in the immediate will soon straighten out. Give me patience as it does.

I guess, in re-reading my list, I really already have these. I forget. So, if there’s a way you can send reminders, I’d appreciate it. Let me notice a moment of quiet in the midst of a noisy day, paint for me a rainbow against the darkness of a late afternoon sky, or let me overhear the elated giggle of a baby girl overjoyed with the simplicity of a bright red balloon.

Be patient please, it sometimes takes a little while before I listen. I’ll work on that.

Special note: I originally wrote this piece in a longer form in 2002. If you would like to see the original, you can go to http://www.scottqmarcus.com/temporary/Holidays/santaletter.htm

In the same fashion that influenza infects one person, replicates itself and then spreads to another, eventually infecting large numbers of a population; memes follow the same process through the consciousness of our culture, affecting (or “infecting” if you wish) the way we react or behave. Unlike an “urban legend,” which is a widespread false story wrongly accepted as fact; or a “fad,” which is a behavior that explodes in popularity and quickly dies; a meme is more akin to a belief or a concept that affect our view of society — and therefore how we react to it.

As illustration, a recent diet meme was “carbs are bad, protein is good.” This spread so quickly and deeply to the point that some honestly believed that scarfing down a one pound bacon cheeseburger — providing you avoided the bun — was a healthy method of dropping weight. This misguided all-protein diet meme spawned several variations of fad diets. Currently, although the meme might remain, those diets are mostly debunked.

Today’s column had its impetus because I was (once again) irritated with an action by our “leaders.” In this instance, the meme currently winding its way through conventional wisdom is that Congress has defined pizza as a vegetable. The underlying logic (if indeed it can be classified as such) was that since that a certain amount of tomato paste equates to a “vegetable,” and whereas there is more than said amount on pizzas; they too would therefore be classified as vegetables.

I imagined children being told by their parents, “If you don’t eat your pizza, you won’t get any dessert,” or seeing the old food pyramid returning with “pesto-chicken pizza” or “double pepperoni” on par with carrots and lettuce. (We can only wish.)

Umbrage redlining, I sought facts (because unlike some cable news networks, I wish to be accurate) and discovered that although the story is untrue, it is not made up out of whole cloth. What essentially happened is the U.S. Department of Agriculture wanted to increase standards so a half-cup of tomato paste would count as a vegetable serving, instead of the current one-eighth cup. In an over-simplified nutshell (which I fear might also soon be classified as a vegetable), in bowing to the wishes of large agricultural companies — and against the wishes of the Administration — Congress opted to maintain the status quo. Therefore, two tablespoons of tomato paste remain the virtual nutritional equivalent of one half-cup of broccoli, green beans or any other vegetable in a school lunch. (In fairness, Congress did not however re-classify pizza to be a vegetable.)

Although somewhat relieved to hear the complete story, it is still disquieting.

Childhood obesity is at all-time high. The current generation of youngsters might indeed grow up to need as much health care in their middle age as my generation will require in its old age, adding yet additional pressure to an already overly-expensive, ineffective health care system, and lowering the quality of life for two generations (plus burdening those following behind). Would it really hurt to teach them to munch on a carrot or celery stick now and then?

We cannot regulate what people eat, nor am I an advocate of doing so; but — tomato paste? Really? This too has become a political battle line? If we cannot stop bickering long enough to help develop standards of what we feed our kids, it will be a short leap before chips are equated with bread and wine is considered a fruit.

We had three cats.

Sadly, “K.C.,” the elderly matriarch passed away early this year, leaving the two identical ginger cats, “Tiger” and “Motor.” (Let’s be clear; I did not choose their names, okay?) These “orange boys” are “inside cats,” because our vet said that the best way to ensure your kitties lead a long, healthy, purr-fect life is to not them prowl the streets. As nimble and agile as felines might be, they don’t understand the concept of automobiles.

Within our fenced backyard dwells a third, Birman, cat. She (we think she’s a “she” but we’re not sure) unexpectedly appeared six years ago, and although she has departed for short periods, she always returns. Exhibiting no fear of us, she’s incredibly affectionate, so we think she was abandoned. Due to her silky, strikingly beautiful, long, silver, and black fur, we call her “Smokey.” (I wanted “Velvet” but was over-ruled.)

Since K.C. passed, my wife has wanted to integrate Smokey with the orange boys, especially as the weather turns harsh. Last weekend, she was finally able to convince Smokey to come inside. To help her feel safe (as well as let the other animals acclimate) Smokey stayed in an unused upstairs bedroom, replete with bed, food, water, litter box, and a screened — but slightly open — window, allowing her the ability to survey the neighborhood from on high. After Smokey was given the good-health go-ahead by the vet, we would begin the process of assimilation.

Until the appointment, my wife checked on her regularly, refreshed her needs, and — in general — kept her company. All was proceeding according to plan until yesterday morning. Upon entering Smokey’s room, she discovered a Smokey-sized hole torn in our screen. During the previous night, Smokey pulled a Steve McQueen and escaped back to the “wild,” only to return to our backyard later in the day as smug as if nothing had happened. She was as affectionate as ever, and despite rejecting the four-star hospitality we had so graciously provided, was only interested in her standard nightly canned food repast.

“Why would Smokey prefer to live in the rain and cold instead of in a warm house?” my wife wondered.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” I granted. “However, if you look at it from her point of view, outside is all she knows. Frosty nights and wet grounds might not be pleasant, and she’d probably even enjoy being inside once she got used to it, but sometimes you stay with the discomfort you know rather than take the time to learn about something better.”

I’m not a cat; that’s probably evident. But, at least in that respect, humans are not that far removed. How often do we pass up the option for “better,” obstinately remaining with “same?” Even after accepting things can be better, we still have to shake up long-held behaviors, and usually, we decide it’s not worth the effort. So, on we plod…

With enough tuna to keep her belly full, and a warm fireplace by which she can lay, Smokey might have made the switch. We, on the other hand, can be a lot more stubborn.

Let’s take that concept a little deeper, shall we?

Our thoughts — to a large extent — are altered by our feelings. If I am angry or sad, my thoughts will be unlike when I am happy or excited. Upbeat folks are more inclined to venture down new avenues than depressed folks; who will lean toward stagnation; both of these due in large extent to underlying emotions. Therefore, it makes sense — at least to me — that the more I accentuate the positive, the more I engage in new behaviors.

Why don’t we do that more often? It’s not that difficult really.

Underneath these thoughts and their triggering feelings lie beliefs. By example, if I believe that life is painful, it’s much more difficult to modify my emotions to find the positive than if I believe life is glorious. Since we are always looking to validate our beliefs, we find “proof” of them wherever we look. One who believes life stinks will uncover countless examples as evidence. Whereby, one who loves life will find an equal number shoring up her philosophy. In effect, what you seek generates emotional responses, altering your thoughts, leading to different actions, adjusting the outcome of your life. Change your observations; change your life.

What I have personally observed since my bike accident is a tremendous outpouring of love, support, and good wishes from people I do and do not know. Where I live has some drawbacks; I won’t deny it. Yet, it is also populated with the most astounding, assorted, diversity of magnificent individuals.

Here’s where beliefs come home to roost. I trust that people the planet over — while not identical — are similar. We rise in the morning hoping to do the best we can, striving to take care of family and to contribute to our communities. We attempt (mostly) to treat others with dignity and respect, and hope that they will do the same with us. We are all fighting — or embracing — the “human condition,” coming from and returning to the same place. We are alike.

So, if that is correct, and the citizens of my community have been so wondrously caring and compassionate, my beliefs profess that the people where you live are parallel, and that applies no matter where you’re reading this. Logically then, if the world is bursting with people who, at their center, support and assist each other, then this planet is a better place than I gave it credit for being.

I cannot prove it of course, but I assure you that it’s true. (Besides, it cannot hurt to hold true that belief, can it?)

Again, thank you for the concern. I’m getting better every day.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CRP of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

I was going to ride my bike to my appointments. The bright sunny clear morning sky cooperated as I headed north on E Street. Upon reaching the intersection of Highway 101, I waited for a green light.

Once it changed, a car heading in the opposite direction proceeded into the intersection, as did I. Yet, instead of going straight, the driver turned on to the highway and directly at me. Unfortunately, the laws of physics say only one object can occupy a space at a time; so when a 2,600-pound car and a 180-pound bicyclist collide at the same point in time, one of them will be moved. Of course, that was me — and in a rather forceful manner.

Upon the horrifying realization that there was no way to avoid being hit, time slowed down. As I saw the automobile come into contact with me, I thought, “My life is about to change.” The only unknown was “How much?” As the front bumper impacted my leg, I sent up a quick prayer, “please let this be minor, and if not — please let it be quick.”

My bike fell under the car as I rolled on to its hood, smashing into the windshield. I vaguely recall the vehicle continuing to move forward with me on its hood, whimpering. What I later discovered was that I impacted the windshield with enough force to destroy it and was subsequently hurled 20 feet down the road. I remember crashing headfirst on the asphalt, shattering my bike helmet.

What happened next was nothing short of amazing.

As if guided by an invisible director, people descended on the scene from every bearing. Although conscious, I was — needless to say — confused. I couldn’t tell in which direction I was facing, nor from where the voices came, but I could discern individuals coordinating to direct traffic away from me. I heard cell phones click to life from those calling emergency services. Strangers ran to assist me, and one gentleman — an angel as far as I’m concerned — took my head in his hands to hold me still to prevent further injury, his calm reassuring voice a comfort unlike anything I can remember. With my head cradled in his grip, I knew I could “let go.” Even though there was no major pain, I was moaning, more out of fear. I wanted to sit up to survey what damage had been done to me but this Godsend of a man insisted I be still and he held me firm. He assured me help was coming and he would take care of me until then. The EMTs arrived within seconds, as did the fire department, and police. I felt embarrassed by all the commotion I was causing, and by blocking a major highway, but no one seemed bothered. Everyone was focused on helping me.

Someone asked if I was okay.

I quipped, “You mean aside from the obvious?”

He laughed; I cannot say how much that meant. That was a hint of normalcy and I so needed it. While the EMTs checked me out and loaded me into the ambulance, I couldn’t help but crack wise. It might not have been the traditional platform for a comedian but — what can I say — when the entertainment bug bites, you just gotta go with it.

The doctor who discharged me later called me the “Man of Steel.” He said, “For a 57-year old guy to take the impact you took and be able to walk out of this hospital on your own power means you’re either living right, or someone’s looking after you — or both.” (He also said the helmet saved my life.)

There has been an amazing outpouring of concern for me since the news got out. Everyone asks how I feel. When I woke up today, I realized I had aches in places where I did not even know I had places so my answer is consistent, “Sore and Grateful.” This could have ended with countless other outcomes and with so much more pain and suffering than I am enduring today. As many have pointed out (like I don’t know), I could have died. Yet none of those happened; none; just some abrasions, sprains, and contusions.

I am lucky beyond calculation.

As importantly, if it wasn’t for the kindness of strangers and the professionalism of the first responders, I’m not sure what would be today. All I know for sure is that I am indeed blessed, and I am reminded yet again that none of us exist in isolation. We come together to help each other and from that action, we become our own better angels. We are benevolent, caring, magnificent beings who — when push comes to shove — will do the good thing.

I don’t ever want to go through that again; that probably goes without saying. However in some unlikely manner, the faith it has given me, the hope it has provided me, and the reminder of what really matters has sincerely made yesterday one of the best days in my life. I am grateful to everyone who helped more than I can ever express.

God bless you.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CRP of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

Frustrated, many opted for easier fad diets; “The Grapefruit Diet,” “Egg Diet,” and “Watermelon Diet,” to name a few. Same results.

Time marches on but stupidity is eternal; so many continue to engage in diet foolishness. Let’s take a tour of some of today’s more bizarre diets. (I did not make these up.) As they say, “Do not try these at home.”

We’ll begin with the Vision Diet, based on the logic that if something looks bad, we’re disinclined to eat it. So, don a pear of blue-tinted glasses all day and everything you plan to eat will look disgusting.

The flaw? Well, aside from the fact that you could hurt your eyes from wearing tinted spectacles too long, the hole is that — for those of us who overeat — we aren’t overly concerned with food’s appearance. Let’s be honest. When you’re gobbling down handfuls of three-day-old leftovers at midnight while standing in front of the refrigerator in your boxers, food presentation isn’t the main criterion by which you’re making culinary decisions.

Next is ear stapling, whereby surgical staples are placed in the inner cartilage of the ear, supposedly stimulating pressure points that control appetite. (One might assume the constant stress of having sharp objects in your ear would actually cause you to eat.) In actuality, the body shortly gets used to it, so one reverts to old habits — or amplifies the process by adding more, developing an abnormal attraction to office products.

While on the subject of body altering, make some noise for the Tongue Patch, whereby a one-inch square of mesh is sewn onto your tongue. Unlike medical patches, it contains no medicine. Instead, it merely makes it difficult — even painful — to eat solid food, so the dieter literally starves herself. But wait! There’s more! For $1,500 or more, you get the further benefits of possible choking and nerve damage. Of course, once the patch is removed, old habits return, albeit with a strong craving to chew on your pants.

Other examples of dietary dumbness include the Cigarette Diet; you smoke instead of eat. Total weight loss is determined by how much your lungs weigh upon removal. The Cotton Ball Diet involves swallowing cotton balls to fill up before eating. One could accomplish the same objective by consuming paper — while having the added benefit of helping to recycle trash. Feed your sweet tooth with The Twinkie Diet. Twinkies, day and night, night and day. Since there is insignificant nutritional value in these not-found-in-nature foodstuffs, you might as well engage in an all-chocolate or all-vodka diet for the same results.

Finally, winning the “most disgusting award” is The Tapeworm Diet, illegal in the U.S., but still offered elsewhere. One ingests beef tapeworm cysts, which eventually interfere with digestion and absorption of nutrients, generating significant weight loss. Once goal weight is reached, an antibiotic is given, which kills the tapeworm so it can be expelled. Aside from the “yick factor,” other side effects can include cysts in the liver, eyes, brain, and spinal cord with potentially lethal consequences.

However, just thinking about that is enough to squelch one’s appetite causing a drop of a few pounds — so maybe it does work after all.

Over one person’s lifespan, he could build understanding between countries, generating bonds among millions. Should he choose the healing arts, one soul could cure millions on multiple continents, elevating especially the elderly and the young. One man, or one woman, could raise populations from poverty, or tutor multiple generations to read, enlarging possibilities well beyond his days. In one lifecycle, great inventions will be created, political movements will be forged, wars might be averted, and peace could take root. One person, one lifetime, with so much possibility…

Yet, what if there was but one decade? In ten short years, what could one person do?

In that period, a parent can raise a child from healthy adolescent to well-adjusted, successful adult; or guide her from a “spark in her daddy’s eye” to a happy buoyant, bouncy, smiling, joyful young girl. In 3,600 days, one being can decide what matters, embark on an educational voyage, advance to premier heights, become recognized for accomplishments, and utilize those skills to develop her life — and those of all she touches. She could construct miraculous vaccines, produce rousing movies, pen prodigious literature, or travel the globe and advance deeper understanding of vastly unalike cultures. Should one person choose, even without education, he could opt to support the unfortunate, instruct the uneducated, or comfort the afflicted. In the next ten rotations about our Sun, history could — and most probably will — be affected by one person many times over.

Should you only have one year, what might be altered?

Between now and this date next time, you could reconnect with far-flung family with whom you have lost touch, bringing back a sense of closeness too easily forgotten. In 365 days, you could learn to play an instrument, acquire a language, donate regularly to a cause, or enhance your relationships. In one brief year, you could help mend your neighborhood, volunteer at a school, understand another culture, read great novels, plant a garden, or lose that extra weight and become more fit. One year, a blink of an eye, is loaded with potential. One person, one year, with so much possibility…

In one month, how could things change?

Before you turn the calendar, you could choose what matters most and devote time each day in its pursuit. Should you fancy, you could learn yoga, kick-boxing, watercolor painting, or cooking. In that time, you could go berry picking, finish painting the house, read several novels, make a movie on your computer, enroll for classes, get caught up on your filing, pay some bills, clean the “junk drawer,” donate 30 hours to the homeless, learn CPR, stack wood, plan the best vacation ever, take daily walks; and still have time left over to hold your wife and call your kids (or vice versa). There is so much that can be done in four short weeks.

In one day, what could be changed?

Before tomorrow rises in the east, you could sit in the sun, call a friend, take a walk, write your congressperson, start a journal, go to the library, wish well every stranger you see, stop putting off a doctor’s appointment, give a few bucks to the guy with the cardboard sign (realizing it could have been you), or leave a happy-face note for your wife.

If you only had “right now,” what would you do?

One person, one moment, with so much possibility…

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CRP of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

At least when I wrote that; I wasn’t. Being the intelligent reader of this column, you put two and two together and surmised that in a flash. Hopefully, as you read this, I am still in the not-dead state of being — and shall remain so for decades yet to come.

Having proven therefore that I understand very little about what it’s like to die, you will cut me slack about not really knowing — but safely assuming — that no one’s last words were ever, “I wish I would have spent more time working and less time enjoying life.”

We would agree, wouldn’t we?

So, then what’s the deal with non-stop, dawn-to-dusk, 24/7, busy-making? We don’t ever just “chill.” Well, at least I don’t; maybe you do, but I’ll bet dollars to donuts that you’re in the same place. There’s so much to get done with so few hours to do it.

Forty-hour workweek; what’s that? Wake up. Shower. Shave. Throw some frozen waffles down your gullet while checking the mail and packing lunches. Get the kids to school, pick them up, and beat feet to soccer practice and gymnastics. Straightaway back, homework, meals, brush teeth, and off to bed. To accomplish everything requires groundwork: grocery and clothes shopping, housecleaning, home maintenance, and car servicing. These necessitate steady income — and, oh yes — have you heard the news about the economy? You better not slack off at work or they’ll swap you out quicker than a DVD rental on a Saturday night. So, off to the salt mines, bringing our assignments home so we can get them on our kitchen tables in the morning and the bed stands at night. We’re work harder while having the privilege of paying more for everything. Come end of day, it’s drop like a lead brick off a six-foot wall.

It’s no wonder we don’t have time for “a life.” Or do we?

My sister phones, “What are you up to?” She asks.

I reply, “I’m working hard at relaxing.”

Stop the clock. Re-read that response please: “I’m working hard at relaxing.” Huh? That statement makes as much sense as “same difference,” or “kosher ham;” but I swear it was my reply and I’m betting you relate. Our lives are so cluttered, that if tasks were boxes, we’d be featured on the TV series “Hoarders.” No longer are we human beings, we have become “human doings.”

Last Saturday, you know what I did? I could have worked on my computer, or mowed the lawn. Goodness know, there were bills aplenty requiring my attention. Nope, didn’t do any of those. Instead, I made a conscious decision to do nothing.

It didn’t start that way. My dog, Jack, and I went for a walk. Upon returning, he scampered into the backyard, rolled about on his back, feet to the sky; and then did what animals do so well: Absolutely nothing. Zero. He simply “was.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I did that, so — not having a better plan — I joined him! I didn’t put my feet in the air, but I honest-to-God did lie down in the grass and watched cloud animals pass over my head. I felt the sun on my skin. I let my mind go where it went. For a short time, Jack and I simply appreciated that we exist.

Even machines have an off switch. Surely we deserve as much as do they. The world’s going to keep on turning, even if you’re not the one who’s pushing. Take a moment and recharge. You’ll get more done later.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CRP of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.