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There is a new endurance sport taking over America, one that builds both strength and resistance. It’s a marathon in which you run for office—over and over again. To qualify you must be rotten to your core and willing to test the endurance of your fellow citizens. To un-seed the current record holder, you must be able to convey an astonishing 3.43 lies a minute. Participation requires an excessive preoccupation with yourself and your own needs as it is an expensive hobby. Many people get started in the sport by running from the law. Once you have escaped all legal consequences, you enter the zone, and it becomes easy and addictive. The best candidates for the sport are individuals who do not carry excess weight. To get in shape for the starting line, experts recommend shrinking the size of your heart and the weight of your conscience. The equipment necessary includes a Jim on your corner along with a number of different dumbbells. You must be able do about 120 reps, bench a few hundred judges, and wear the official cruelT-shirt. You will know you have reached endurance status when everyone around you feels the burn. Must be 35 years of age and have proof of citizenship to participate. Tuesday, November 4, 2025 is Election Day in America. Exercise your power.
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Well, we are deep in football season. College games occupy our Saturdays, NFL games our Sundays and our Monday nights. Game 1 of baseball’s World Series is behind us and the NBA season is before us. Our great leader, #47, is still teeing off on the weekends. Everywhere I turn it’s all about balls. My mind might be fertile ground or just a trash mountain, but as you know, I like to ponder life’s big questions, and so the steady roll of balls leaves me pondering another one of life’s mysteries: What is our societal fascination with balls? I would Google it, but I fear the pop-up ads that would follow, and I don’t want my children to visit and turn on my YouTube TV to find a menu of X-rated videos. How did this dedication to the spherical life get started? As they scavenged for food, were cavemen fascinated by the roundest rocks? Did some caveman encounter a rolling stone and take off in hot pursuit…something else in the wild to be tamed and brought under man’s control? Or did he see a smooth round rock rolling down hill and say to himself, “Hey, that stone is not gathering any moss, I think I will chase it, and when I catch it, I am going to kick it into my enemy’s cave. Maybe he will kick it back to me.” Or, “I think I will hit this stone with a stick and then run home as fast as I can.” Maybe cavemen had a lot of time on their hands when they weren’t hunting or fleeing for their lives. I am not sure which of our early ancestors passed the ball, but sports metaphors aren’t just for fun and games. They entered the business world a long time ago, and they appear to be a requirement for business and motivation. We are advised to get the ball rolling and keep our eye on the ball. We go to bat or carry the ball. Sometimes we have a lot of balls to juggle. We cover the bases. Sometimes we drop the ball or wait while the ball is in the air. Occasionally, we slam dunk. On the downside, we might drop the ball or get behind the eight ball. Under pressure we might make a Hail Mary pass (and you don’t even have to be Catholic to do so). Other times, the ball’s in their court and all we can do is wait-- unless we are off base entirely. High profile male ball handlers are the most well-known of celebrities. A person might win a Nobel Prize and save millions of lives with their discoveries, and no one knows their name, but hit a ball out of the park or score a touchdown and your name is a household word more familiar than that simple, old-fashioned word: eggs. Everyone will be wearing your image or number on their t-shirt. And people will pay a pretty penny for the winning game ball. It has been harder for women to get in the game. People just don’t seem willing to pay to watch women carry the balls. I did a quick, informal survey about why this is so. What I learned is that the women’s game lacks the level of “explosiveness” and “aggression” seen in the men’s games. Perhaps testosterone explains it or maybe men have just had more time on their hands to develop these game-playing qualities. Who knows what those cavemen were really doing when they went off to hunt. Women were having babies, nursing babies, hauling water, tending fires, gathering food, and cooking and cleaning all while chasing off the occasional predator; never a moment to spare. And the early beauty regimen might have been time-consuming with no quick showers or hair dryers. Let’s face it: women have always been overextended and tired. In our current spheres of influence, all you need is to have been a once-famous male athlete. The doors blow open for you. Having played a ball game qualifies aging former players to be owners, coaches, commentators, broadcasters, senators, governors, motivational speakers, and general experts on everything. Who needs an education and specialized knowledge and experience when you are a modern day Zeus? And so we roll along with no job too big for a former ball handler. Seems nuts to me. When people ask me: “Where are you from?” I find it hard to answer. My home is not so much a place as it is something that grew inside of me, or as James Baldwin would say, my home is “an irrevocable condition,” a condition I acquired in the “way back” of a Rambler station wagon in the time before seatbelts and the interstate highway system, in the time when families were large, children were the cargo, and luggage went on the roof. It was not the houses or the bicycles or the toys that we were leaving behind that spoke to me of home, but rather, it was the landscape that faded into the distance as the miles added up on our journey to somewhere else. Eventually, the years added up alongside the miles, and even after I took the wheel, it was the landscape and the roots of the people it sprouted that let me know when I was home. Necessity not wanderlust led me to spend so much time moving from place to place. My father was a Master Sergeant in the United States Air Force. My early childhood was marked by frequent moves across the country as my father was deployed or re-assigned in the service of his country. By the time we finally landed in suburbia, it was too late—my condition was chronic and could not be undone. I had the stubborn awareness that all places are not the same. Though most of my life has been spent in the city, I know that the city is not my home. Urban living serves practical needs like higher education, employment, and access to state-of-the-art health care, but my home is in small towns and wide open spaces, places that serve my soul: My home is where laundry flaps on a clothesline and cows graze in the pasture. My home is where the air smells of rain, wet dirt, and new grass. My home is where Amish buggies and giant combines slow the few cars trailing behind them. My home is on dusty dirt roads where indigenous people sell their colorful handicrafts from makeshift stands against a backdrop of majestic mountains and prickly cacti. My home is in small villages where people know your name and generations of your family. My home is where people give directions to strangers using fence posts, barns, and disabled tractors as landmarks. My home is where there are old cisterns in the yard and Seckel pears falling from trees that shade the porch. My home is where children swim in the creek, race frogs, pick wild berries, and wear necklaces woven from dandelions. My home is where the sheriff might also be a volunteer fireman and a farmer might drive the ambulance. My home is where a big night out is a trip to the local custard stand—the only establishment for miles around. My home is where the blast of a locomotive’s air horn and the rumble of coal cars say it is time for dinner. My home is where a trip to the city is a big deal but coming home is better. My home is where a person’s reputation is known and it matters, where hard work and resourcefulness are The Designer’s brand. My home is where a man can have a doctorate in chemistry and still farm the land, where he has the know-how to make everything from fudge to a barn and repair anything from a leaky faucet to a truck’s torn upholstery. My home is where business establishments still close on Sundays. My home is where productive labor is a joy and people join hands with God to raise a crop or expand a herd, places where people turn trees into furniture and fruit into jelly. People ask me: “Where are you from?” Where am I from? I dwell in the city but my roots are in the dust of the earth and in the soil of country landscapes; my heart belongs to stalwart and generous neighbors who care for the earth and for each other; and my soul rests in the wisdom of The One who planted a garden in Eden and put there the man and woman he had made. I go to bed with frost in the morning forecast. After the brutally hot and humid summer we've had, I am delighted to awaken to a chilly morning. Shivering in my PJs, I look for something to wear. Scanning the options in my bedroom closet, I accept it is time to pull out the fall and winter clothes. I go to my spare bedroom and slide open the closet door. Hanging there is the sum total of my cold weather wardrobe: four sweaters and two sweatshirts. As with my shoes, I will have to employ carbon dating to determine the age of these items. They probably aren’t in style any longer, but then I remind myself neither are old people, social courtesies and democracy. I used to be a working, socializing gal. Surely this can’t be all the clothing I own. I dig into old dresser drawers and scour every closet and shelf only to find it is true. COVID ushered in a style change that defied the seasons and became permanent. COVID came just in time to save me from the Spanx/shapewear movement—another life threatening cause of shortness of breath. Sweat pants, blue jeans, and t-shirts are my all-seasons, all-occasion wardrobe. And speaking of sweat, I am pretty sure sweat is glitter for people. That’s about all the accessorizing and sparkle I have left in me these days. While I sometimes long for adventure or at least a special occasion, looking at my wardrobe, I am relieved by the lack of invitations. My wardrobe is strictly casual, and when I say casual, I mean I could sleep comfortably in anything hanging in my closet. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about the prom this year. A couple of years ago, post-COVID, I did get the idea that I might want to shop, see what’s in style. I hit the strip mall with all the popular women’s clothiers. I walked into the first store and discovered that a t-shirt cost $60.00. I walked out. I found the same thing next door. With no real reason to shop and no small fortune to spend, I abandoned my updating efforts. If people can refuse to return to the office post-COVID, I can refuse to shop. I will work the stuff I have at home thank you very much. And as to “style,” I am not sure what might be in style or if “in style” is even a thing any longer. When I step out in public I can’t really distinguish social class or occasion from the way people dress save for the wealthiest who I spot out for a morning stroll at 10 AM decked out in high-end gym clothes that actually look like the aforementioned shapewear complemented by some expensive jewelry and an equally expensive breed of dog on a leash. Turns out the new work from home movement is a coming out party for underwear and pure bred canines. So disconnected am I from the social scene, I have to ponder what a special occasion might be for me, one that would require special clothing, and then I say a prayer of gratitude that I will never again have to wear pantyhose. While they were a great improvement over nylon stockings and garter belts, they came with their own unpleasant side effects. And really, does anyone even make pantyhose anymore? I don’t see those cute little plastic eggs on display in any store in which I shop. Maybe a leg wax and pedicure are now mandatory. Seems like a lot more time and expense for such a temporary purchase. Yet another reason to stay home and watch other people exercise on YouTube. At my age I suspect I have only two special occasions left in me. I could get arrested, but I’ve seen plenty of mug shots. I am confident I can pull together that look from what I already own. The second special occasion that still awaits me is a trip to the morgue. I am pretty sure my wrinkled old birthday suit will get me past the bouncer. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
November 2025
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