Apothegm (a’-po-th-e-gem): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, gnome, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.
“Slow and steady wins the race.” I am 5’7” and weigh 240lbs. Slow and steady is all I can manage. I’ve never won a race, except for drag racing with my 327 Chevy Nova.
Just this morning, I lost a race at the grocery store. There was only one shopping cart left in the rack. I raced a woman wearing shorts and tennis shoes to the cart. I went “full waddle” and came nowhere near beating her to the cart. She taunted me with “Too bad fatty pants” as she triumphantly marched into the grocery store. The cart retrieval person rolled into the vestibule and started parking carts in the rack. He shoved a cart in my direction and taunted me with “Here you go chubster.” As usual my feelings were hurt, but not enough to keep me from selecting three Little Debbies, four boxes of chocolate-dipped donuts, and two boxes of walnut honey buns. In addition, I got two half-gallons of fudge swirl ice cream and two cheesecakes. Along with frozen pizza, I was good for the week.
When I checked out, the checker person taunted me with “Good luck big boy”as he bagged my purchases.
I vowed to start a diet right after Thanksgiving, which was my premier site of over-indulgence that snared me with my love of eating. Last year, I ate a whole turkey with all the trimmings, two pumpkin pies, and one apple pie. I was not “slow and steady” sucking down the food—gravy flew, cream sauce from the onions coated my shirtfront, pumpkin pie filling adorned my hair. If there was a food race, I would’ve won it. But there wasn’t.
In preparation for this year’s thanksgiving, I’m going to fast for 20 minute before I leave for Mother’s. Since this would be my last Thanksgiving as Mr. Chubba Wubba, I wanted to be hungry going in.
POSTSCRIPT
Thanksgiving came. He waddled to the table and sat in his steel-reinforced chair. He dug in. It was like a gobbling windmill was sitting there, eating, arms flailing, gravy splattering, chunks of apple pie in his lap, onions and turkey dressing coating the front of his shirt, and mashed potatoes smeared across his face.
In his frenzy he shoved a drumstick into his mouth as if his mouth was a wood chipper. He started choking. Everybody turned and looked. Nobody did anything.
He choked to death.
His mother quipped “One person’s meat is another’s poison.” It was apt, but tremendously sad.
