My Body Needs More Ashwagandha Root

My body is a flabby, fleshy mass of Christmas fudge. My blood type is no longer Type B-negative; instead, it is Cheese-positive. If I cut my finger, onion dip would squirt out prodigious quantities. Ladies, how do you like me now?

The “ruining of the physique” as I call it, occurs every December, despite my annual pledge to walk away from all snacks mozzarella-related and be the lone party guest who actually consumes the raw cauliflower and broccoli stalks, sans queso. While friends and relatives gorge themselves on food that, due to its small size, can be easily piled on plates in large quantities, I would be the rational party attendee, placing a single naked cracker on my plate, taking minute bites as if I were a newborn rabbit nibbling on a baby carrot.

Didn’t happen. Which is why I need … a pill.

Oh, you were thinking the previous sentence should contain the phrase “extreme diet”? “Strict exercise regimen”? “Barbed wire around the cheese aisle in my local grocery store”? Nah, not necessary. Not when there’s AGELESS MALE MAX.

Every year, post-Christmas, my car radio airwaves and my web browser seem to be flooded with advertisements for these wonder guy pills that are so amazing, so awesome, so full of testosterone-producing whatever, that health clubs and home gyms need not exist. Take one a day, the ads promise, and my stomach will be so taut, one could bounce a cheese ball off it. The Ageless Male Max (yes, it’s a real product) ad filled my ears as I was driving to, ironically, my health club, hoping to burn the caloric equivalent in one piece of toffee.

I returned home after an hour of, barely, lifting weights, googled “Ageless Male Max,” and was immediately directed to a site featuring a shirtless man who looked as if he was trying to sprint off my computer screen. The site featured an image of an Ageless Male Max bottle and was full of open-ended, mysterious phrases like “FROM THE NUMBER ONE BEST SELLER!” though the site failed to disclose the number one best seller’s identity or how Ageless Male Max derived from it. Furthermore, the pill promised to provide KSM-66, “a full-spectrum extract of the natural Ashwagandha root.”

Testimonials from three hunky dudes praised the pill’s merits, even though all were identified only by their first names and last initials, making it impossible to track them down online and verify that, yes, they were real Ageless Male Max customers. My office shuts down for the week following Christmas, yet I still don’t have time to sift through 278 million Google hits, trying to find the correct “Erik M.” who insisted that, yes, he was able to do more gym reps thanks to Ageless Male Max.

The ad promised “Easy as 1-2-3” results. First, the pill would enter my blood stream and produce much-needed nitric oxide, necessary for sexual arousal. Who knew?

Step two would bring the arrival of the mysterious KSM-66 and all its Ashwagandha root benefits. My “cortisol levels” would decrease, thereby improving my mood, the ad promised.

By the time I hit step three, I would, the site stated, have increased muscle size and reduced body fat. If I had doubts, all I had to do was look at Erik M. Or Rocco S. Or Scott L. All three were ripped; yet two were bald, making me wonder if KSM-66 causes hair loss.

My first bottle, shockingly, would be free. I’d just have to pony up $6.99 for shipping and handling. My mouse hovered over the “try it now” button but, as I do every year, I reneged at the last moment, fearful of these wonder drugs that promise so much but cost nothing.

Instead, I vowed to hit the gym harder, cut down on evening beers and bring my own, healthy snacks to next year’s round of Christmas parties.

Anybody know what kind of dip goes best with Ashwagandha root?

No Way am I Flying in and out of Oprah

When I think of Nashville, I think of legends like Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, both of whom are, in fact, dead and therefore eligible for building naming status. I would have no qualms texting my wife about a three-hour layover in “Hank” or “The Man in Black International.” But telling her I’m “stuck in Oprah for the time being”? Different story.

The Lyft Driver, the Toddler and the Spirit of Christmas

I am fortunate to have a career that allows me to put smiles on faces. Moments before meeting Cassandra, I had done just that for an audience of 400 people. Cassandra, I could tell, was longing to return to a vocation that would allow her to do the same, despite the long hours and low pay. Until then, she was chauffeuring strangers around in her own vehicle, trying to keep her daughter entertained and, all the while, apologizing. It didn’t seem right.