Dont Mince Words

Am I the only person who opens those annual Social Security statements and gets pissed? I discovered a way to redirect my hatred for all the geezers that get a paycheck thanks to me. It’s called disability.

“If you become disabled right now your payment amount would be about $1,924 a month,” my estimated benefits tell me. That’s tempting, especially since I’ve had a taste of “disability” during the last six weeks while I was in a soft foot cast. It gets me seats on the bus. My Russian neighbors make room for me on the sidewalk. And, last night, the greatest perk: I got handicapped seating at The Wiltern to see The Breeders.

Now we all know I’d have to live in a trailer and eat dog food to survive on that monthly stipend. But it is tempting, especially if it gets me out of working with colossal tools. I’ve been working since 1979 and I’m tired. But I’m also frustrated knowing that these Studio 54-Woodstock nation boomers are retiring on my dime and I’ll be lucky if the favor is returned to my generation.

I could buy a mighty fine trailer with the $71,630 I’ve contributed so far, or 600 kegs of beer and 100 bags of dog food. Until I figure out how I can work the system, I’m going to keep my crutches and soft cast nearby. At least I know I’ll have good seats at restaurants and concerts.

There are times I miss Brooklyn. Good bagels. Real pizza. Funny Jews. It was very apparent last week I wasn’t anywhere near Brooklyn when I went to my corner market.

I’ve been a shut-in since my foot surgery, but felt strong enough to venture out, primarily for fruit and human interaction. I put my backpack on, grabbed the leash, and Tex and I crutched up to Santa Monica Boulevard. I tied him to the tree in front of the market and I went in.

Bodegas in NY have everything. Sewing kits, beer, cheese, you name it. The markets in my neighborhood are run by Russian Jews. All food labels are in Russian. Their customers are stereotypical sad Russians sporting scowls. My gimpy WASPY self was happy to be around the old world Jews, just for a change of pace. I grabbed some tomatoes, grapes, dark rye and waited in line and stared at the deli case which had a variety of beet dishes. I suppose Russians like their root vegetables.

When I finally got to the register the woman before me was almost out the door, but was speaking very loud and pointing. I realized it was Tex. I hobbled to the door as she continued to speak her Russian blah-blah to me. I smiled and said, “He’s old and very, very friendly.”

She seemed surprised I wasn’t a native speaker. Maybe my bed head made me look more Russian. “Oh, he is beautiful dog. You see he is very old soul,” my rectangular-shaped neighbor in a polyester dress told me.

Back at the register, the owner tried to up-sell with potato pancakes and other bakery items. She then went to the meat case and pulled out what looked like a one-inch diameter Slim Jim dipped in battery acid. I can’t begin to tell you how many un-nameable cow parts I saw there. “It will make you well,” she told me. I thanked her and stuffed my backpack.

I’m now doing much better and Tex and I can make it the four short blocks to Whole Foods with one crutch. I may go back and visit my Russians, but for now, I’m back to English-speaking WeHo gays and Hollywood Jews. These are my people. Besides, Whole Foods has bagels.

I grew up in a time when sport bras barely existed; certainly not for d-cups. Sneakers didn’t have shock control and they had little arch support. Well, at least not where my parents shopped. These factors, combined with allergies, made me a hater of gym class.

There were two times a year when I really wanted to skip school just to miss gym and that was during those god forsaken Presidential fitness tests. Girls, you remember, the flex arm hang where you’d try to keep your head above the bar. I was good for about three seconds. But my least favorite test was the 440 run. That one lap around the track made my lungs burn, my nose run, my boobs hurt, and my ankles ache. I was never a runner.

Imagine me 30 years later in a fitness bootcamp. I was nearly paralyzed the first day when the major blew his whistle and we started running down Wilshire Boulevard at 6 a.m. My eighth grade anxiety set in. Armed with great shoes and a killer sport bar, I went as far as I could. I could go miles on the elliptical or treadmill at the gym, but there was just something about hard pavement and bus fumes that made it more difficult.

Three weeks later I was at the front of the line up and made it all the way on a half-mile warm up jog around the LA County Museum of Art. I tried to hang back so I wouldn’t hold up the fast people; however, the major pushed me and I was the pace setter.

I made it, but those magical endorphins never arrived to supply me with a runners high. All I could think about was, “wow, my mother could of never done this at my age.” So, my mindset was not back in eighth grade thinking about my 80 pound classmates who could flex-arm hang for 45 seconds. Nah, my athletic competitive benchmark is just living better than my parents.

If that’s the case, I think it’s cocktail hour.