OK, the news and TMZ reports are true. I have recently been dealing with some family issues. Perhaps I use the term “family??? a tad bit too loosely. By family I mean my fish. Maybe fishly is the more appropriate term. I realize that is not exactly a word. However, if we agree to start using it moving forward, by year’s end it could easily be included in the dictionary, and it would have all started right here. How cool would that be?

I’m not sure what happens when you create a word, but I assume you get inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and you get to meet the queen. By queen I mean Cersei or Latifah. Whichever one is available when I get the call from Merriam-Webster. It doesn’t really matter to me. What does matter is that I already have my bags packed.

Anyway, one day I was minding my own business when I noticed something strange going on in my fish tank. For some reason, all ten of my fish were hiding. Even Gertrude, the one who proclaims herself the Beyoncé of the group and keeps me and the other fish in line. I put my ear up to the tank and was surprised that I couldn’t even hear “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)??? through the glass, which was usually on repeat. Something was clearly wrong.

I immediately turned on the news to see if there were any reports of rogue fish causing mischief around the city. It wouldn’t surprise me if my fish had decided to go on strike. After all, I was feeding them bland looking fish flakes while I ate steak and potatoes. It wasn’t fair and equitable treatment by any means. Fortunately, none of my fish showed up on the FBI most-wanted list—at least not in the top ten.

Although my fish apparently weren’t fugitives, I still had reason to be concerned. Them hiding wasn’t normal. I mean, if Gertrude wouldn’t come out, who was going to lead our dance troupe trough our routines? Not everyone can get on the megaphone and yell, “Fin, fin, tail, tail, and swirl, and swirl.??? I have never been good at keeping count. Especially when I’m trying to remember whether it’s right fin or left fin.

If I can be honest, leading up to the fish disappearance, Gertrude had had me a little stressed. I don’t know about you, but it’s no fun having a fish threaten you that if you don’t hit all your steps, you could easily be replaced by Chris Brown. Apparently, he’s been dying to work with her for years. Making matters even worse, he lets his fish eat at Ruby Tuesday’s. And if they dance really good, he takes them to Red Lobster.

According to Gertrude, she taught Chris everything he knows. She has even alleged that she was the fish that taught Michael Jackson the moonwalk, which I’m sure was a bit easier for her. After all, how hard is it to float backwards in water? But I digress.

To get a better view of the situation, I stuck my head in the tank. I know what you’re thinking. Wasn’t there an easier way to find fish in a fish tank? Well, yes. Possibly. But where is the fun in that? Besides, all my leadership training tells me that sometimes you just have to bring yourself down to a fish’s level to make progress happen. I mean, fish are people too. We all put on our dad jeans one fin at a time.

Anyway, with my head still in the tank, I saw something that frightened me. It was terrible to say the least. There was a sick fish here, and a sick fish there, here a fish, there a fish, everywhere a sick fish. So I did what any normal person would do. I immediately called 911 and then began performing mouth-to-gill resuscitation as I had learned from that one episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Those skills really do inevitably come in handy.

When the police and the paramedics arrived, they were quite upset for some reason. Apparently, I wasn’t exactly clear with the 911 operator when I called. I had yelled, “Help! Send someone right away! I don’t know how much longer they are going to make it,??? which I thought was the right thing to do at the time. To my surprise, the police didn’t exactly consider a group of sick fish an emergency. I admit that I may have misjudged the situation, but I’m not sure I deserved to spend a week in jail for it.

Fortunately, my mother was very understanding when she bailed me out. I thought she’d be disappointed, a word she’d used so often in my childhood that I thought it was my middle name. According to her, “disappointment??? was my very first word as a baby. Anyway, she had recently endured a similarly unfortunate incident herself when she called the fire department one evening because her rabbit had gone missing. She thought that maybe he had escaped, but as it turns out, he had been safely beneath her bed snuggling with her bunny slippers the whole time.

By the time I got home from jail, I had four floaters in the tank. And by floaters I mean several of my fish had decided that they’d had enough and kicked the bucket. Just like that, Gertrude and I had lost the majority of our background dancers. It was beginning to look as though we were not going to be able to pull off our Christmas Eve annual performance of The Nutcracker this year.

At this point, I couldn’t hold back the tears. Partly because I couldn’t afford that many fish funerals at once, and partly because I had been practicing day and night for the past three months for my big dance solo. Although I am a perfectionist, I have to admit that part of the reason for all the practice was because I felt pressured to perform well. Every time I walked past the fish tank, Gertrude would nonchalantly flash me her cellphone showing Chris Brown’s phone number on speed dial. She’s tough.

The following morning I woke up to three more floaters. As I scooped them from the tank, I wondered what I could have done to avoid this. I mean, we are all depressed that Game of Thrones and Veep both only have one more season left, but certainly there had to be more to live for. Right? Maybe I hadn’t administered enough CPR. Maybe I shouldn’t have poured as much Nyquil in the tank or forced the fish to take adult Tylenol three times a day. Clearly, I had failed my fish. This would have never happened to Chris Brown…or Meredith Grey.

The next day all but one fish had keeled over. In the center of the tank was my last remaining fish giving me a sinister look. It was Gertrude. She explained how the rest of the fish simply couldn’t cut it so she did what she had to do. She had recently watched The Godfather and decided her tank mates would be better off if they “sleep with the fishes.??? If they couldn’t fin-fin-tail-tail properly, what good were they as backup dancers?

That noted, if you don’t hear from me for a while, it’s because Gertrude has me and her replacement backup dancers on house arrest until we nail all of our steps. She has been more than clear that “The Nutcracker??? will not fail under her watch. Not today. Not ever! If we ever forget our role as supporting dancers, she is quick to remind us that Chris Brown is ready and willing to fill in at a moment’s notice. But for now, me and the backup fish will just keep dancing, and sleeping with one eye open.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram and Twitter handles: @mikeyllo

The other day a coworker of mine pointed to my dungarees and yelled, “You’re wearing dad jeans!??? Ashamed, I quickly scampered across the room and hid behind the photocopier. If people thought they were going to insult me, they would have to find me first. Also, they couldn’t judge what they couldn’t see. That noted, I remained crouched there for the rest of the day, handing over random copies and coughing. It was pretty dusty back there.

The dad jean allegation was a claim I’d heard before from a “friend,??? mind you. At the time I just laughed it off. I mean, what do my friends know anyway? Just because some of them have three MBAs and five CPAs, doesn’t mean they are qualified to critique my dungarees. After all, I have a humor blog. All I’d have to do is say the word and my three readers would be happy to help make dad jeans great again.

I must admit that I don’t keep up with fashion or whatever the “kids??? are wearing these days. Matter of fact, I had to learn the hard way a few years ago that cool guys no longer wore pleated slacks. In one fell swoop, I lost virtually all the pants in my closet. For the next few weeks, I roamed the streets bottomless until I could afford more stylish pants. Surprisingly, my friends were more accepting of me in just my boxers than they were with me leaving the house in pleats.

As one does when they are hit with a dad jeans allegation, I immediately jumped on the Googler. I mean, were the jeans that I had just bought a few weeks before from Kohl’s already out of style? Had one of my favorite stores led me astray? More importantly, even though I had worn the jeans for at least 15 days, would Kohl’s allow me to return them now that I had learned the error of my ways?

I had barely hit the search button for dad jeans when I was bombarded with pictures of my beloved dungarees. Apparently, stonewashed, light blue, high-waisted, relaxed jeans had been voted off the island in World War I. In some states, wearing jeans that sat comfortably at your navel and billowed at the thighs was a serious offense. Unless you were sitting in a retirement home and immobile, you could be locked up on the spot.

As I read the terms “fitted,??? “slim,??? and “skinny,??? I was reminded of years ago when I attempted to try on a pair of skinny jeans and almost died due to limited blood circulation. Some of you may remember this. I was the number one trending topic on Twitter for fifteen weeks. To this day reporters are still calling to do follow up stories to find out whatever happened to that poor, unfortunate guy that had to be cut out his skinny jeans with the Jaws of Life.

Right before I got to the point where I was starting to feel depressed, I learned that my attraction to dad jeans may not be totally my fault. One article assured me that my passion for comfort over style was actually a disease. Allegedly, I had what they called Dad Jean Syndrome. As such, I immediately called out from work. There was no need for me to spread the disease around. If I am one thing it’s considerate.

As I lay there on the couch with a wet compress on my head and a thermometer in my…umm…you know, I searched for a cure. Although I didn’t find a magic red or blue pill that would fix me right up, I did learn that me and my dad jeans were in good company. Right there on the screen were hundreds of photos of my friend, Barrack, who thought dad jeans were all the rage. If they were good enough for the former president, they were certainly good enough for me. Right?

I continued to look through the photos and saw other alleged offenders such as Jerry Seinfeld and George Clooney. And right there before a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio but after a photo of Jay Z was a picture of me in all my dad jean glory, waving to the camera. There I was amongst the greats, thinking I was cooler than a cobb salad, but the paparazzi certainly didn’t agree. Apparently, my lettuce was a little wilted. And maybe a bit brown.

Although I thought I looked nice enough to go to Cinderella’s ball at 11:59, the article said I should have been arrested for walking the streets wearing shapeless, unflattering rectangles around my legs. They noted that I had been spotted doing three squats in the gym, so I had certainly earned the right to show off my progress in a pair of well-fitted jeans. Clearly, they didn’t know that the only time my legs were actually firm was when I was wearing compression stockings.

I pondered my fate. Would I cave to the pressure and start looking for darker, slimmer jeans that would sometimes cut off my ability to breathe? Would I be ok with foregoing comfort for fitted pants that would hold me hostage in an emergency and prohibit me from making a quick getaway? If I were stuck in skinny jeans, who would step up and get the cat off the neighbor’s roof? More importantly, who would help the poor grandmas get across the street if my thighs were constricted? I had a lot to think about.

On the other hand, I saw articles that assured me that, at the ripe old age of 38, I was past my prime and too old to try to be “cool??? by wearing skinny jeans. According to one writer, I was supposed to accept the fact that I was no longer hip and that I drive a minivan to get my bushel of kids back and forth to soccer and dance practice. I didn’t even know I had a minivan or kids. I wonder how much mileage is on this alleged minivan. Better yet, who’s been paying the child support for these alleged kids?

Apparently, I was too old for skinny jeans, but too young for dad jeans. If that was the case, what was I supposed to wear? A nice dress with a sensible heel? Those Easy Spirits do look mighty comfortable. Adding dresses and skirts to my wardrobe would certainly give me a bit more versatility and would show my support for women’s equality. After all, it’s 2017. Why should women be the only ones making life decision about whether to shave their legs or not every morning?

In any case, I’ve decided to do what Barrack and other dads have long done before me. I’m going to have to buckle down—or buckle up my jeans at the navel—and embrace my Dad Jean Syndrome for now. I mean, who knows what tomorrow brings? Maybe dad jeans will come back in style and all the people who jumped on the skinny jean bandwagon will be pissed when I’m the only one in fashion, strutting my unflattering shaped pants down the block. Well, one can certainly dream, can’t he?

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram and Twitter handles: @mikeyllo

A wise man once said that age, weight, and blood pressure are just like rent and taxes: at a certain point, they just go up. Maybe it was me who said that. Maybe I’m the wise man. Hmmm. Anyway, I was minding my own business the other day when my birthday came to “kick in the door, wavin the four-four.??? Well, not exactly a four-four, but certainly close enough.

I won’t complain too much about turning a year older. As they say, having a birthday is way better than the alternative. But my question is, how would anyone know? Has anyone died and been like, “Nope, this ain’t for me. Who do I talk to about being alive again???? Maybe on the other side every day is your birthday. Maybe there you don’t have to pay student loans or credit card bills. Maybe there gyms are illegal—hopefully. But I digress.

Before making any grand birthday plans, I checked my bank account to see what type of funding I was working with. Apparently, as long as the cost was less than a quarter, I was free to do whatever I wanted. I checked with American Airlines and they informed me that there was absolutely nowhere I could fly on that budget. Even after I demanded to speak to a supervisor and claimed discrimination, they wouldn’t budge. However, I did make their no-fly list.

So, instead of traveling, I decided to keep it low-key and knock some things off my bucket list. Well, not exactly my bucket list, but I could at least visit a few of the places I had bookmarked on Yelp over the years. Some of these places may be familiar to you, but based on the reviews, I’m excited to check out this one restaurant called KFC and another one called Taco Bell. Maybe they will even sing “Happy Birthday??? when I tell them it’s my big day. We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted.

In preparation for my birthday, I called my team of doctors to schedule my annual health tune up and oil check. I had barely stepped into the exam room before I was offended. The medical assistant tried to rush me onto the scale as if it were her favorite thing in the world to let people know just how fat they were. I calmly informed her that if I was going to get on the scale, there was only one way that was going to happen. I would have to be nude. There was no way those numbers would include my belt and my undershirt. Not this time.

When I finally stepped onto the scale, the lady slid the number up to 250 pounds and slowly inched her way down. When she got down to 200, I overheard her say “Really???? under her breath as if she was surprised I was still in the hundred range. It was then that I realized my fist was balled up. Before I did something I would later regret, I remembered the words of my dear, sweet mother. She said, “It’s 2017. If you haven’t verified for yourself, don’t just assume it’s a woman. You know what they say happens when you assume.???

Fortunately, the doctor came in right about that time, so there was no need for me to lay hands on the woman—or man—or whatever that was. I won’t assume. Although I had lost weight, the doctor informed me that I still failed the BMI chart. At 184 pounds I fell into the overweight category. For my height, a normal weight range would be from 125 to 169, meaning I would have to lose 15 pounds just to be one pound away from being overweight. Maybe this is what my mother meant when she said I would never be normal.

First of all, I haven’t been 125 pounds since World War II. Second, if I was anywhere below 169, I wonder if I would look healthy. The only good thing about me possibly being that small would be that I wouldn’t have to purchase a skeleton costume for Halloween each year. Instead, I could go as is and tell everyone, “I woke up like this.???

If I’m being honest, there may be a few places where I could stand to lose a few pounds. I mean, if I could lose five pounds from my nose, and ten pounds from each of my ankles, maybe then my team of doctors would be proud of me. Maybe then Golden Corral and other buffet establishments would allow me back on the premises. Apparently, my situation is so dire that even Nutrisystem found me on Twitter and offered to help. I could be their next spokesperson. Who knows?

Not long after being diagnosed as overweight, the medical assistant snatched my arm up in the air, slapped a cuff on it, and began taking my blood pressure. I tried to breathe deeply and meditate, which are techniques I learned from a guy I met on the street who said he could tell me my future for $1.99. I’m pretty sure he was homeless, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t learn something from him. I don’t discriminate. However, I did wonder who the invisible person was that he kept talking to and why he kept calling me Lynda. Maybe that’s what my name means in his native language.

Anyway, I knew that if I wanted to have a good reading, I would have to relax. I thought about puppies. I thought about kittens. I thought about the “Red Wedding??? scene on Game of Thrones. As I expected from how tightly I was gripping the exam table, the results weren’t good. “146 over 90,??? she said proudly. “Of course, it’s high,??? I yelled. “You just called me fat and told me I may not live past lunch!!!??? I would have slapped her, but I remembered that I hadn’t physically verified whether it was a female yet.

Even though I opted not to hit him or her, apparently you aren’t supposed to yell at medical assistants. Oh, also, you certainly aren’t supposed to snatch up a syringe off the counter and use it to threaten your doctor to take your blood pressure again or else. I had to learn this the hard way. Fortunately, before the cops arrived, the doctor complied with my request. This time my reading was 155 over 95. To this day I have no idea why it changed so quickly. Maybe I was stressed. Police officers do tend to have that effect on people.

If being arrested wasn’t bad enough, I had other lessons I needed to learn that day. After accepting that I had failed both my BMI and blood pressure tests, I decided to share my numbers with a few friends and coworkers—BIG MISTAKE! I wanted them to feel sorry for me, but instead they started trying to hold me accountable and counting my calories. Before I knew it, cheesesteaks, bacon, cakes, and biscuits were all being snatched right out of my mouth. Worst of all, one of my coworkers said I could have no more fries. NO MORE FRIES!!! I screamed. I yelled. I grabbed a syringe off the counter.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Why are there so many syringes just lying around everywhere. I wonder the same thing. My shrink says I could have handled the situations differently. I don’t like when people I pay disagree with me. Fortunately for her, all of her counters were bare. She even went so far as to snatch up the pen off the table just in case I got any clever ideas. Good thinking. Pens and syringes are basically cousins.

I share all of this with you, my dear blog readers, to let you know what I’m going through. Because of my big mouth, if I eat anything other than carrots and lettuce, I have to do it in the comfort of my closet or the third bathroom stall at work after hours when the lights are out. It’s pretty sad. That noted, if you see someone snacking on a bacon cheeseburger under a bridge, or if you hear someone moving around in your basement or attic, don’t worry, it’s probably just me trying to eat pepperoni in peace. Accountability sucks!

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram and Twitter handles: @mikeyllo

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. What is Michael getting himself into now? Is he getting his own show on Bravo? Did he finally get that job changing oil at Jiffy Lube? Or, has he finally taking a dive into the fascinating world of male stripping? I can just hear it now. “Coming to the stage in his toolbelt and cowboy boots is Michael, The Maintenance Man. Have your dollars and coins ready.??? Well, one can certainly dream.

I don’t consider myself to be a handy person. I mean, I have been known to swing a hammer at a thumb tack occasionally, but trust me, no one is calling to put me on the cover of “Popular Mechanics??? anytime soon. And if they did, what would I wear? A few well-placed oil stains and a couple wrenches? Hmm, now that I think about it, maybe I could pull that off. No sweat. Actually, sweat would be a good thing in that equation. Yeah, I’d look really handy…and oily.

For some odd reason, life has been handing me odd situations where it would have been really helpful to have been born with a screwdriver in one hand and a saw in the other. The first incident occurred when my car lost a headlight. Well, technically, the headlight wasn’t lost. Instead, it decided that, after ten years of service, it’d had enough. It clocked out and went to that little place in the sky where all headlights eventually go.

Stranded, I did what any normal person would do when faced with that situation. I called my grandma. I mean, if anyone could teach me how to change a headlight, it would be her. After all, I’ve seen this woman make dinner for 15 people out of a teaspoon of salt and a ketchup packet. Unfortunately, she wasn’t available. She said something about being right in the middle of teaching a CrossFit class and she didn’t appreciate the interruption even if it was an emergency.

Next, I looked up the instructions on YouTube. There were a ton of them. I decide to go with the one that had the easiest instructions:

1. Get a new bulb.
2. Pop the hood.
3. Remove the bulb.
4. Disconnect the battery.
5. Dismantle the alternator.
6. Drain the windshield wiper fluid.
7. Rebuild the engine.
8. Insert new bulb.

Easy. Piece of cake. Even a toddler could do it. So, the next morning, with a fresh, new bulb, I skipped down the sidewalk toward my car. That was when the trouble started. There I was, fully prepared to get to work, but it was the popping of the hood that stumped me. I mean, where was the instruction manual for that sort of thing? Are there buttons? Is there a remote? Can I phone a friend? After breaking a sweat tugging on the hood and giving the car a few swift karate kicks, I took it to the mechanic. They had the lightbulb fixed within a few minutes. Problem solved.

A few weeks later, my apartment was renovated. I came home to find my kitchen counter lowered and my fireplace raised, which meant I had to move pictures around and raise the flat screen TV. The problem was that the TV was mounted to the wall. Much like the hood of my car, no matter how much tugging, swinging, and pulling on it, it wouldn’t budge. This job would require some elbow grease…and maybe my grandma.

Fortunately, I had paid attention when the TV was originally mounted to the wall. Of course, that means I should have known that I couldn’t just move it with a little push or tug. If it took a drill to get it up there, it was certainly going to take more than a running start and prayer to get it down. Regardless, I firmly believed that I could take the TV down and put it back up myself. Yes, it seemed like it would be a huge challenge, but my momma always told me that I could do anything I put my mind to—except change a headlight.

It wasn’t long before I realized I would need a drill of my own for this endeavor. Immediately, I thought of me drilling a hole into the wall and hitting a powerline or a water main. Knowing my luck, I would probably strike oil. I had visions of me drilling into the wrong piece of wood and having the whole apartment complex collapse right there with me still holding the drill. Can you imagine the headlines? I would be found guilty and sentenced to single handedly having to rebuild the whole complex. That would be a nightmare.

Despite my fears, I decided to plunge ahead and get started. If we could put a man on the moon, I could certainly put a TV on the wall. I went to Walmart and found a whole aisle of drills, drivers, sanders and other equipment that I only knew the names of because I’d recently watched The Bone Collector. One wrong move, and a person could easily lose a finger or a head. Losing either would certainly hinder my progress. Eight hours later, after reading reviews and doing comparison, I made my decision. I couldn’t wait to call my dad and tell him I was a drill owner! He cried.

Now would be a good time to admit that I may have overdone it with the drill and accessories. I had no idea what I needed, so I bought everything—including two drills in case one didn’t have enough power. Although the toolkit I purchased had over 70 pieces included, I still purchased more accessories just in case. You just never know when you’re going to lose or break something. I then bought a few socket wrenches and attachments for good measure like any good maintenance man would do. I was serious about my craft.

Then came the actual work. Do you know the saying, “measure twice, cut once???? Well, had I used that advice, maybe I would have gotten it right the first time. However, because I didn’t, I found myself mounting and unmounting, mounting and unmounting, and then mounting and unmounting until I got the TV in the perfect position. Fifty drill holes later, it was perfect!

The major thing I learned was that it is best to unplug your electronics before attempting to move them around. Not only did the cord hinder my movement in several instances, I also woke up in weird positions on the floor several times with my last memory of seeing a flashing light shooting from the socket. For some reason, my eyebrows appear to have been singed off, and I kept hearing a sizzling sound while smelling something reminiscent of bacon.

In any case, I write all of this to say, you, too, can have your very own electronics installed by none other than myself. Prices are completely negotiable, but just know that TV mounting takes no less than 3 weeks and I am paid by the hour. I will accept cash, credit cards, and your first born if they are willing to iron and make my breakfast in the morning. No returns or refunds. For this and more, just call Michael, The Maintenance Man.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram and Twitter handles: @mikeyllo

If you ever want to know whether you’ve gotten old or not, the first test should be to turn on the radio. If you are surprised when you don’t immediately hear Barry Manilow, then you probably aren’t in the target age group for Forever 21. You’d probably fit in better at Maybe 45…or Kinda 62.

Instead of good ole Barry, you’ll probably hear the sounds of that stuff the kids call “pop??? music. Oh, and when you find yourself starting to say things like, “Well, the kids say…,??? or “Back when I was young…,??? or “This reminds me of when Nixon was in office,??? then it is probably safe to say that Moses signed your birth certificate. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He has great Yelp reviews.

Soon after you begin asking Siri what a “Bad and Boujee??? or a Bruno Mars is, you may also notice that the plucking of gray hairs is kind of becoming a part-time job—one with no benefits. Let’s not even mention the extra hairs that begin sprouting from your nose, ears, and eyeballs—everywhere except where you need it. Thank God for toupees. I call mine Carl. The next time you see me and Carl on the street, feel free to say hello.

All of that aside, the major tell-tale sign of old age is your clothing. As I sit here on my balcony in a Snuggie, I’m reminded of a time when a much younger me wouldn’t have left my room if my hair wasn’t brushed or if my shoes didn’t match my belt. That statement is not to be confused with whether the carpets match the drapes. Well, because we’re friends, I feel comfortable admitting that I lost my carpet and my drapes years ago.

When it comes to clothing, I’ve pretty much given up on being fashion forward. No matter how much I watch “Keeping Up With The Kardashians,??? I just don’t think I can pull off a yellow romper, even if Caitlyn Jenner recommends it as being comfortable menswear. For me, any sense of style has definitely left the building. Maybe it left with the drapes. Hell, it might have gone with the carpet. How is one to know? But I digress.

Recently, I caught my reflection in a store-front window. To my shock and horror, my pants were pulled up a lot higher than I used to be comfortable with. As opposed to my belt being at waist level, my reflection showed that it sat slightly below my floppy B cups, which had previously been A cups until I had a big breakfast that morning.

Panic-stricken, I began pushing my pants down as if there were no tomorrow. Defiantly, they would not budge. I wiggled. I jiggled. Some middle school children giggled. I loosened my belt. I undid the button and lowered my zipper, but the pants clung to my chest as if their success in life depended on it. It was as if they were Jennifer Hudson in “Dreamgirls??? as they began to sing, “And I am telling you, I’m not going.???

I looked around and tried to identify someone that I could use to determine how high the waist of my pants were supposed to be. First, my eyes landed on a group of teens whose pants were sagging in a manner that exposed a bit more than I believe would be allowed in my business-casual office, and were certainly lower than the legal limits in at least five southern states. Besides that, I am certainly not cool enough to pull off the sag. After all, I was wearing khakis, a fitted shirt and oxfords.

Next, I spotted a few guys whose pants were sitting as high as mine were. I began to smile because I believed I had found where I belonged, but then I noticed that these guys all had walkers. Gray hair—or no hair—rested where once black, blond, or brown drapes had grown. Depressed, I left my pants right where they were under my man-boobs and joined my new friends. We spent the rest of the day playing bridge while discussing the merits of suspenders and orthopedic shoes. I felt right at home.

On another clothing-related note, it does not appear that I’m going to get through the summer of 2017 by wearing a waist trainer under a pair of full-body Spanx at the beach as I had planned. I emailed a current photo of me to the CEO at Spanx so that she could see what I was working with. She responded with a lovely memo stating that the organization simply did not have access to enough fabric for such a project, but she did wish me luck on my future endeavors.

After crying myself to sleep that night, I wondered if I could put a few liposuction sessions on my credit card. When each of them was declined, I called my insurance company and complained that the procedure should be covered because it just wasn’t natural to allow a person to walk the streets with three chins and five necks. I sent them pictures of me as well, and they responded with a cease and desist letter. Apparently, forcing their staff to view photos of me in various states of undress was cruel and unusual punishment. However, they did recommend that the pictures be used as an alternate form of torture since waterboarding is so controversial nowadays.

All of this body-shaming caused me to revisit my New Year’s resolution to hit the gym. I mean, since I’ve been faithfully paying membership fees for the past 10 years, I figured the least I could do was stop by and look at a treadmill. Sure, the last time I went to the gym, I sprained my rotator cuff by moving a 3-pound dumbbell out of the way to make room for my Starbucks cup. Oh, and there was that terrible case of athlete’s foot that I caught in my left eye. Besides that, I didn’t think a gym visit would be so bad.

You will be pleased to know that I’ve gone to the gym more in the past few weeks than I did in the past 20 years. Surprisingly, I still weigh exactly the same as I did before. In addition to me not losing a single pound, my blood pressure and cholesterol are hanging in their high and strong. Much like me, apparently my numbers are resistant to change. I’ve gotten used to that look of shock and amazement my doctors display when they check my numbers and wonder how I’m still alive.

Whether I go to the gym or not, or whether I lose weight or not, in my opinion, I have still been doing my duty as an American citizen in supporting U.S. businesses by faithfully paying my membership dues to Bally’s each month. Oh wait…my mom is telling me it is now called LA Fitness. Huh. When did that happen? 2011?!?!?! And no one corrected me all this time when I’ve been lying about going to Bally’s every morning! Geez, who can you trust?!?!?!

Regardless of the name, I am proud to say that I helped LA Fitness keep the lights on. And, yes, you can thank me for the new elliptical machine at your local gym because it was probably my hard-earned money that paid for it. You’re welcome. I wonder if my name is inscribed on the treadmill somewhere. I wonder if it was expensive. I wonder if it came with carpet and drapes.

Michael Rochelle
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So, as you all learned from the incessant news coverage on CNN and the various SNL skits over the past few weeks, I recently had a birthday—yes, another one. At this point, I’m starting to believe that once you reach a certain age, your birthday just comes around whenever it wants to as opposed to just showing up once a year. This year mine rolled around at least three times against my will. I even filed a restraining order and a cease and desist letter, but like a student loan debt collector, my birthday somehow still found me.

My new age had barely settled in when I began reaping the benefits of being a whole year older. It was great to be able to check the box marked “I’ve stopped counting??? on all applications. And of course McDonald’s offered me coffee at the discounted rate for seniors, but it was really great to see a movie for $3 less after showing my ID, and it is even better to have two people assist me on and off the treadmill at the gym each day. People are truly concerned about making sure I don’t overexert myself, which is the exact reason I avoid going to the gym in the first place.

The most surprising thing about my being a year older was the spike in responses my profiles received on Match.com, Oldies-But-Goodies.net and Counting-Down-The-Days.org. Apparently, my profile was chosen to represent the “older gentlemen??? category, so it was the first time I had 48 year olds reaching out to me because they looked forward to the wisdom and guidance I could provide. It was thrilling to have so much in common with my potential suitors such as having the same medical alert bracelets, matching wheelchairs, and a healthy appreciation for the smell of Ben Gay. A few people even offered to pay for me to get autographs when I link up with my former classmates Betty White and Hugh Hefner at the next high school reunion.

For several weeks leading up to my birthday people asked what I was going to do to celebrate. Would I have my face carved into Mount Rushmore with the presidents? Would I allow Beyoncé’ and Britney Spears to perform backup at one of my concert events? Or, more realistically, would I finally make the time to offer those fitness training sessions to The Rock, Vin Diesel, and Tom Cruise so that they could bulk up before their next movies? Apparently they have dreams of one day having my physique. I mean, can you blame them?

Perhaps I did look a bit more in shape and svelte than usual around my birthday because I allowed one of my clearly deranged co-workers to talk me into going on the three-day Military Diet the week before I officially became elderly. For those three days, you’re essentially allowed to drink a glass of water and eat 1 peanut for breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day. Yes, you read that correctly. I literally had to take one peanut and split it three ways to make it last throughout the whole day.

I’m not usually a dieter because I believe in the healing power of chicken nuggets. However, since my doctors have been telling me for years that I’m just one French fry away from being obese, I got excited at the idea that I could possibly lose ten pounds in just three days. I thought that if I stuck to the diet, I’d be able to finally squeeze back into those extra-large t-shirts that I adored in my twenties without first slathering myself down with a mixture of Crisco and lard. Oh, those were the days.

Naturally, I weighed myself on the first day. The number was so offensive that I immediately hopped off the scale and tossed it across the room and off the balcony. Unfortunately, it ricocheted off a tree branch and hit someone’s little boy in the head. Don’t worry, though. The kid was bothering some squirrels that were simply minding their own business, so he totally deserved the encounter with the scale.

With dreams of being a new and improved me for my 98th birthday, I set my resolve to endure the three days of starvation. On day one I heard voices and went through the five stages of grief and abandonment. On day two, one of my shrinks reminded me that I was doing this to myself just before she blocked my number and demanded that we both see other people. On day three I rolled around on the floor with hunger pangs and tried to eat one of my neighbor’s goldfish before I finally caved and had four Milk Duds after dinner. I had truly reached a new low.

The day after the diet was over, I practically ran to the scale to see what I had accomplished. Much to my shock and dismay, instead of losing ten pounds, I only lost three. I blame those four Milk Duds for getting me so off track! Disappointed and depressed, I had a cheesesteak for breakfast. By the next day, my replacement scale showed that I had gained all the weight back plus two extra pounds. In a rage, I flung the new scale off the balcony, too. This time the scale only slightly grazed the arm of someone’s grandma. Scared for her life, she ran for cover. However, her family later thanked me because they hadn’t seen her move that fast in years.

A few days before my birthday arrived, I decided that I would go to Niagara Falls so that I could finally scratch that off my bucket list. It was then that several of my friends informed me of how cold and miserable it would be up there this time of year. I was also reminded of my clumsy nature and that I would probably reach down to pet a friendly dog, trip over someone else’s shoelaces, and tumble right over the falls. After all, since it had been years since someone had accidentally gone over the railing, fate would probably recognize that I was in the area and choose me to balance out the numbers.

To avoid the run in with the dog and the shoelaces, I gassed up the car and drove to Norfolk, Virginia instead. If it was in fact my turn to stumble into Niagara Falls, fate was going to have to put in some extra effort to make that happen. My two additional pounds and I met up with some friends in Norfolk where I ate a lot, slept a lot and played Topgolf for the first time after being convinced that it was nothing like real golf and that I wouldn’t tumble off the third-floor platform if I somehow swung too hard, missed the ball, and was pushed forward by a gust of wind.

Much to my surprise, and possibly because I may be kind of related to Tiger Woods, I came in second place during the first game and I actually won the second game. Not to brag, but I was forty points ahead of my closest competitor. I mean, sometimes when you’re gifted, the numbers just speak for themselves. My win probably did have something to do with the scoring holes being large enough to be a parking lot, but I was just happy to be able to call my Dad and tell him that I had finally found a sport that I was partially good at. He was so proud.

Oh, and since I know what you’re thinking, because I’m responsible, like last year, I absolutely did not have drinks of any kind for this birthday. There were absolutely no cocktails, shots, wine, or beer of any kind. Did I mention no shots?

All in all, I have to say that being 98 isn’t so bad. For one, whenever I share how old I am with people, all of the compliments I receive for looking so good for my age is empowering. Also, when I explain that I have had very little work done so far, it is as if I’m giving people the gift of hope that they too can look as good as I do when they reach their nineties. Well, nothing is for certain, but one can dream, can’t they? Yes, one can dream.

Happy Holidays!!!!

Michael Rochelle
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