Take
a moment to image an alternative past where Ms. Cortes overheard Hernando’s
plans to burn all his ships upon arrival… “Oh hell no Herny!” She could be
heard from the kitchen. “You best be keeping a few boats, just in case.”
Reminding him of all the past missions that were supposedly successes, but
quickly turned ugly once the locals organized. Sending him and his men back
home – spirits crushed – needing to start all over again. Again.
Fast
forward, Hernando orders the ships to be torched. (His mama raised no fool.
Plus he ain’t crossing the wife either.) “Hey guys,” Hernando exclaims, “don’t
sweat the fire on the water… Think of it as theatrics.” He has a fire walk planned for later, after Antonio Robbins gives a riveting self-empowerment speech. The crew is ensured that if they fail, no biggie, extra boats are anchored up the shore. Merely motivational.
Sailing
back to Spain with less boats, in cramped quarters with dejected conquistadors,
surely is a better option than the possibility of failing and having no return ticket. The
natives are far less forgiving than the Queen. Well that fiction pretty much sums up my reality following last year’s extreme weight loss challenge.
After
losing 52 pounds in four months my clothing draped over me. Nothing fit. My dear wife bought a
whole new wardrobe. (She even picked up a few things for me too.) I loved the new skinny look, but hated the added clothing
expense. So be it, the weight was off, and I had no plans on going back.
Donate
the fat me clothes!... Burn the size 38s!
My
wife -- Ms Cortes to my Hernando – quickly sprung into action. “Honey. Sweetie.
Pooh Bear. I’m digging the new less of you. But, is it wise to give all your
38s away? Let’s keep a few.” Right there is when I gave myself unconscious
permission to put back on the weight. And put it on I did. 32 pounds in nine
months.
I
only have a few pairs of 38s left to wear. The extra boats safely anchored up
the shore. Having to wear the same few pairs each week is embarrassing enough,
but then toss in a flaming torch to the ego as I look at all the new 36s collecting
dust. Damn that woman and her sensibilities.
Here
I am again: September, another three-month training camp before me, and the
boats are in the closet. Once I shed the 30 will I finally burn all the 38s?
Stay
tuned.
