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August 25, 2007

Watermelon accidents happen mostly at home

I’ve been wondering when the Golden Years start. My father used to say, “Golden Years, my (beast of burden),” and so far as I can tell, he had a good handle on it.

One of the cruelest ironies that comes with getting older is that even though your stomach appears to get bigger, it might actually hold less food than it once did.

A co-worker and I were discussing an Italian restaurant that has excellent pizza. This pizza is delicious, and you can pick up a slice, fold it in half lengthwise and eat it like they do in New York.

“My wife and I had one the other night,” he said, “and I could only eat two pieces. The rest we had to take home.”

I told him that if I push it, I can eat three. Then I don’t do much the rest of the evening. However, this pizza refrigerates well, and when you nuke it the next day it’s just as good as it was the night before.

Recently, I had chicken fingers and French fries at another restaurant and, to my considerable dismay, was unable to finish them.

However, I’m trying not to eat as much these days, so maybe my stomach has shrunk a bit ... on the inside, at least. My annual physical is coming up, and I keep in mind something else Dad used to say, which is that, “You ought to stay away from the damn doctors. They’ll just tell you something you don’t want to hear.”

I’ve been eating more fruit and vegetables and feel better physically. A lady I know is doing the same, but recently had what can best be described as a “watermelon accident.” And it had nothing to do with what supposedly happens when a woman swallows the seeds.

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