Scott "Q" Marcus - Striving for Imprefection

A column in a recent issue of Newsweek magazine has prompted me to think — always a dangerous practice.

The piece, penned by Julia Baird, was entitled “Positively Downbeat,” and the basic thesis was that positive thinking was actually making us all more miserable, rather than happier. As evidence, she sites a study from the General Social Survey by economists Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers of Wharton. They found, that despite three decades of economic growth in America (current tumultuous financial climate excepted), men and women are no happier now than they were in the seventies. To further hit home the point, the study found that women in 1972 were, on the average, actually more content than they are now.

Being a devotee of “positive thinking,” I was perplexed. How could it be that lighting a candle rather than cursing the darkness would make us more miserable? Intuitively, it made no more sense to me than a study that came out a few years ago, finding that low-calorie foods caused obesity. As in that report, something was obviously askew.

Ms. Baird references another author, Barbara Ehrenreich, who in her book, “Bright-Sided: How Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America,” calls positive thinking a “mass delusion.” Among other ideas, Ms. Ehrenreich argues that the foundation of positive thinking is the belief that you can will anything you like into happening: recovering from cancer, getting a promotion, becoming a millionaire.

It is in that statement that I found a foothold; believe as you wish, one must also accept that the universe will not change its rules to accommodate our whims, fantasies, or desires.

Positive thinking is not blind, naive, magical wishing. I cannot rub a crystal ball, site solemnly my affirmations, and assume that all will go exactly as I foresee. After all, I might fancy Sandra Bullock and myself alone on a tropical, romantic, desert island, while at the same time, her thoughts are, “not in my lifetime buster.” I can posit positive until the furrows in my brow are canals, and still move no closer to Ms. Bullock than the DVD I rent from the video store.

Positive thinking does not materialize nirvana for me. What it does is gives me a stake in my own outcomes; so my life becomes mine, for better or worse. Once I accept that I have the wherewithal to direct my actions, I am empowered, not anointed. With the assumption that I am a (mostly) capable sentient being with talents, ideas, and skills; also comes the responsibility of utilizing those gifts to the best of my ability.

An optimistic outlook will not guarantee a life of luxury or ease, it is simply a tool that allows us to deal with events better when they appear difficult and allow us to further enjoy them when they do not. Positive thinking transfers the impetus of action from “out there” to “in here.” But if “in here” continually seeks its happiness “out there,” it is a void that will never be filled.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

While drinking my morning coffee and reading the newspaper at the local bakery, I watched as the young parents entered the establishment, a small blond girl with huge, round blue eyes, bundled snuggly against the cold wind, was in tow. While her parents stamped their feet on the doormat to restart the circulation in their legs, the lass was pulled, as if by an unseen magnet, to the pink, green, and purple cut-out cookies in the glass case.

She pointed to the pastries on the bottom shelf, secured safely behind the transparent barrier, and looked upwards to mom. “Cookie?” She was few in words but her eyes expressed a dictionary.

“No,” said her mom, “Not now. You can have milk if you’d like, but not a cookie.”

Undeterred, she continued to stare down her mom, pointer finger pressed tightly against the glass.

“No,” her mom repeated. “It’s too early.”

No change; defiance; a principle was at stake.

Mom squatted, lowering herself to eye level of the toddler. “I’ll tell you what. If you’re good today, Daddy will bring you back this afternoon and you can get a cookie then. How about that?”

The young girl considered her option, decided it was acceptable and walked away from the glass.

“Interesting how early it starts,” I thought. She can barely use words, but already her rewards are provided in the form of sugary goodness. It reminded me of the joke where Johnny, being the rambunctious young lad that he is, is riding his bike full tilt down the driveway, utilizing all the energy and enthusiasm appropriate to a six year old. Approaching a bump too quickly, he loses control of his two-wheeler and tumbles onto the cement.

Strong, but in pain, he picks up the bicycle and hobbles back to the porch, limping slightly from the accident. Mom inspects his damaged knee, assures him that it’s minor, and says, “You know what will make it better?”

“No,” answers Johnny. “What?”

“A cookie.”

Mom reaches into the bear-shaped ceramic jar on the counter and pulls out a large chocolate chip round reward. She hands it to Johnny, who immediately holds it against his bruised knee.

“When will it make stop hurting?” he asks.

Personally, I think it’s fine to take pleasure in the taste of food; it’s a sense to enjoy. Yet an overhanging question is “Why are we doing it so much?” I do not believe that the only reason to eat is for sustenance or nutrition; but we also must keep that in the forefront. When we look at the shape of our society today (pun loosely intended), it seems to be apparent that we forgot that we eat to live, not the other way around.

When I’m bored, I want to eat. When I’m sad, I eat. When I’m angry — you got it. You know, there are people who, when they’re bored, they read a book? When they’re sad, they call a friend; and when they’re angry, they take a walk. There’s a clinical term for that kind of personality: it’s called “skinny.”

Those habits didn’t develop themselves overnight. Somewhere down the line, they learned something different and their actions took a different path, leading to a healthier life. Maybe, — who knows — as a small child, they were told,  “If you’re really good, Daddy will take you on a bike ride later today.”

We might not be children but a bicycle won’t care.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

To say a continental breakfast is simple, is tantamount to saying fire is hot. No duh. Depending on where you spend the night, this mainstay of hotels and motels might present you with coffee, tea, assorted juices, rolls, yogurt, bagels, pastries, and cereal. Periodically, its menu might include sausage, pancakes, or pre-portioned cups of waffle batter and a waffle maker in which to cook it. (Point of interest: They are called "continental breakfasts" because they are the  breakfast of choice on The Continent, also known as Europe.)

If it's going to be a while before your next meal however, be wary of the ubiquitous continental breakfast because the primary foodstuffs served in these breakfasts contain a whole lot of empty calories. Count on a rumbling, empty belly and low energy a few hours hence.

So, with that in mind, ever-conscious (some might say "obsessed") with taking care of myself and watching my weight, I walk the aisle of offerings before making my decision, taking a casual glance at what is available. Too many calories and too much fat in sausage; too much sugar in the waffles; not in the mood for a mushy apple; what to do?

At the end of the line up, the inn has two dispensing machines that provide two different types of cold cereal. In the front of each dispenser, there is a picture of the box from which they come. I presume they do this so you can tell which cereal is which. However, at first blush, the decision to the health-conscious appears obvious. Note use of the word, "appears."

The same company manufactures both products; yet the similarity ends there. One bin is full of red, yellow, blue, and purple loops caked in sugar. Its container, emblazoned with a loud, cartoonish font, is decked out with a caricature of a varicolored, large-billed bird from Central America, who with gleeful abandon is devouring a bowl of the fruity rings.

The other container, I presume is opting to appeal to the "more mature" morning diner as it consists of a multi-grain granola with chunks of assorted nuts and raisins. Its package cover is more demure, adorned with a wholesome, unrefined, typeface; and instead of a cartoon character, there is an enlarged photograph of a spoonful of the salubrious mixture, showing detail of its nourishing goodness. Across the top of the box, above the brand, it boldly proclaims, "Low Fat."

With credit to the manufacture, nutritional information is clearly printed on the top of each box, and that's what caught my eye. The low fat cereal, had three grams of fat and the sugary cereal had only one.

"Odd," I thought, and inspected further.

In addition to more fat, it had 230 calories compared to 110. It had 150 grams of sodium versus 135, and it had 18 grams of sugar instead of only 12 for the happy bird.

At first blush, the sugary cereal appears to be the healthier alternative. However, years of learning to avoid such items could not be overcome. I opted for a hard-boiled egg.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago this week, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

Let me jump to the point: I am concerned that we, as a people, are drowning in an epidemic of outrage. Maybe it's not as apparently dangerous as the swine flu, but it is far more virulent and certainly more contagious. It seems that virtually everyone is "outraged" about something or another. We appear to seek out reasons to feel offended, flipping it on as effortlessly as we turn on the hallway light. I am saddened that we are becoming humorless and without joy.

I was prompted into this observation because recently I wrote what I thought was a playful look at fried foods available to me on a trip to New Orleans. I admit to taking license with the details; yet overall, the premise was true: due to the preponderance of deep fried options, I find it harder to stick to my diet in the South. One might even consider it a compliment to southern cuisine. One might, yet, that is not how it was taken. I recently made the mistake of wading into the cesspool of on-line comments posted by some readers. "Outraged" was the main entrée on the menu of insults.

One person pronounced, "The South won't miss your rude and snotty little yankee-on-a-diet attitude," wondering if I was "raised by salad eating wolves," (Huh?) and concluding, "You're real lucky none of those Good Ole Southern Boys heard your pansy **** complaining ... or they would have schooled you on proper etiquette in the Deep South." Ouch. "Bitter, table for one please."

Someone else was enraged I was bringing my "ugly American" attitude where it didn't belong. Isn't New Orleans part of America? I don't know whether to be insulted or confused.

Sussing out a new column, I searched the internet for, "I am outraged." Presented with over one million listings; I entered a virtual culture of enraged, upset, venomous folk; ready to jump onto the seeing red bandwagon at the drop of a hat. Outrage boiled over because of the approval of an artificial sweetener by the FDA. Indignation was rampant because a baseball player opted for elbow surgery.  There was high dudgeon because Queen Frostine, a character in the game Candyland, had been demoted to Princess. So distressed was he by such discrimination, that he made a solemn pledge to never again buy another game from the manufacturer, and was arranging a boycott.  All is far from sweet in Candyland.

People, please, can we take a breath? Let's slow down long enough to step back from the brink and move distant from the precipice of righteous anger. Let's put the "go-ahead-cross-this-line" bravado on the back burner long enough to hear what someone has to say before we puff up, poke our finger in his chest, and give him the piece of mind we think he deserves?

Sure, there are concerns a plenty; enough to last for generations. We face a heating environment, a teetering economic platform, and a divided political system. There are injustices galore on which we can focus. And maybe that's the reason we're so easily thrown into a tizzy at the slightest affront. However, do we have to react like moths to light with "outrage?" How helpful or pleasant is it to live in a 24-hour state of hyper-tension, tight jaws, and clenched fists?

Maybe - just a thought here - we could try smiling quicker, listening longer, and thinking deeper. It might not help, but it sure couldn't hurt. Of course, if you disagree, I'm sure I'll get outraged letters.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds almost 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be outraged at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

My email spam blocking system informs me that I have received 128,747 email messages of which 68.05 percent were spam. Why I would want to know those particular factoids eludes me. Yet there they reside, utilizing several of my already overworked synapses.

However, what my spam-catching system cannot tell me is how many of my 41,134 approved messages were forwarded, usually commencing, "I normally don't forward things like this but..."

Upon opening said missive, I am informed that Bill Gates will send me $5,000 if I pass this along; or am reminded of the navy ship telling the lighthouse to move; or - more likely - a friend is warning me that if I don't forward this, I shall suffer severe tragedies. (Point of interest: What kind of "friend" would send me something as horrific as that? Just wondering...)

And as long as I got me started, two notes about e-forwarding "etiquette."

One: If you absolutely INSIST on doing it, do not - repeat DO NOT - include all the other comments from everyone and their brother. No one wants to scroll through 67 pages of ">>You gotta see this..." or ">>Send to everyone you know." Delete others' comments; send what matters - but only if necessary, please.

Number Two: If you wish to respond, use REPLY, not REPLY ALL. Jeeze! They oughta take that button away from people who don't know how to use it. The only thing worse than 67 pages of comments is 67 emails replying with, "COOL" or "BITCHEN, THANKS!"

Oops, excuse the tirade; pet peeve; I got sidetracked. Now, where was I?

Oh yes, once in a while, something great does cross my computer screen, and it's worth telling others about. The RULES FOR BEING HUMAN, by Cherie Carter-Scott, fits that bill, consisting of ten brilliant lessons on how to manage your time on Planet Earth.

They start simply: "You will receive one body. You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the entire time you're here." I mean, how much time do we spend glaring at our profile in any passing shiny surface, bemoaning the fact that we don't look like Anglina Jolie or Jennifer Aniston? (Personally, I don't waste a lot of time doing that, but I have unfavorably compared myself to Brad Pitt.) It's not conceit to accept your strong points. Sure, work on our weaknesses. But shame is not attractive so you might as well get rid of it.

The Rules also remind us, "There are no mistakes, only lessons. A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you learn it. When you have learned it, you can then go on to the next lesson."

How many times have I done the same thing over and over, fooling myself by the preface, "This time it will be different." Sorry, this time will be like the last 17 times, unless I actually do something different.

"Don't you think you might try something else?" asks the Universe.

"I don't want to," whines my cranky inner kid.

Ultimately, I begrudgingly accept that the Universe will not change it rules to accommodate my whims fantasies or desires and proceed forward. Stomp fee. Kick loudly. Next lesson please.

Altogether, there are ten rules, covering all phases and aspects of existence. Each is simple. All are brilliant. And they end with, "You will forget all these."

You'd think, after all these years in this body, I might understand how things work. You'd think that - but you'd be wrong.

P.S. Please forward this article to everyone on your email list.

From the moment she entered the jet, I could tell she did not want to be there. In addition to apologizing each time her overloaded "Big Brown Bag" banged someone in an aisle seat, she was having difficulty navigating her excessive size down the skeletal-sized aisle.

I knew the other passengers were thinking, "I hope she doesn't sit next to me." Plane seats are not known for roominess, and having someone else's bulk overspill into one's limited area was not something for which anyone eagerly plunked down a few hundred dollars.

My overweight past flooded to my forethought and I remembered being the recipient of "that look" in the other passengers' eyes when I used to enter an airplane. I avoided eye contact; my method of signaling to each traveler, "Don't worry. You're safe. I'm not sitting next to you."

Finally, I would locate my seat (God forbid it was a center seat). I'd smile and meekly point to the location into which I was supposed to compress. My neighbor would smile weakly, rise, and let me pass. After I settled in, he would reclaim his territory and - although he would usually try to hide it - I would notice a subtle, but definite, slight tilt in the opposite direction from me; trying to retain as much space as possible for himself.

All of those memories swamped my consciousness now and I knew what this woman walking the aisle was experiencing in this moment.

As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I felt ashamed because - despite my empathy - I too was hoping her seat assignment would not be next to mine. Realizing with horror what I was thinking, I wanted to spare her "the look" coming from one who had been there, so I pulled up the airline magazine and pretended to be engrossed with two Smiling Solar Tiki Garden Torches that will "light up my corner of paradise."

Eventually she dropped her heft into the seat across the aisle, and shyly lifted her hand to signal the attendant. I also understood that motion; it was code for "I need a seatbelt extension," one more humiliation in an already degrading experience.

"Uncomfortable" would not be a word that even came close to describing the pained expression etched on her face after she was finally able to lift her midsection and insert the tab into the buckle. She was sweating from the exertion of what, to most, is a simple task. Her efforts to normalize her breathing were complicated by the tightness of the belt, the metal stabbing arms of the seat on either side, and, of course, the infamous lack of legroom - made even worse by the baggage she could barely insert under the seat in front of her. It was beyond obvious that she would rather be anywhere but in that spot at that time in this moment.

I really know nothing about the lady on the plane; possibly she was already down several pounds on a diet - or she wasn't. I cannot know; more importantly, it is not my job to judge.  But, what I cannot deny is watching her made my heart hurt because it brought back my own experiences. That's an important reminder.

Sometimes, in the effort to improve, I think we get sidetracked, complaining about the effort. "It's too hard." "It'll take too long." We lament the process instead of celebrate our growing freedoms.

Watching her try to relax on a noisy, overcrowded, restrictive airplane in a cramped seat with an overstretched seat belt strangling her midsection reminded me how much better I feel when I take care of myself. Sure, it takes work. Yes, it can be uncomfortable. But, it's a heck of a lot less uncomfortable than doing nothing.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds almost 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

There is no more sought-after dream than that of eternal life.

Since Ponce de Leon set foot in the new world - and well before that - we have been seeking the fountain of youth, the ability to live longer in good health. "We're so close to adding another 20 to 50 years to the human lifespan, that not only are we in the neighborhood, we're on the block; we're just looking for the right door," I was recently informed. The key to the house remains hidden.

For yeast, flies, and rodents however, it's time to party! Scientists have long known that dramatically cutting calories extends their lives. (Who knew that yeast even ate?) Alas, since we do not cavort among baking additives, we have been left out of such advances. Yet, there is hope.

In a recent report, it was discovered that rhesus monkeys, arguably more our kin than yeast, that have been put on a low-calorie diet live longer and healthier lives. Researchers divided 38 monkeys into two groups. One group was put on a diet with 30 percent fewer calories than the other. After two decades, five of the monkeys on the restricted diet had died of normal age-related causes, compared with 14 monkeys on the normal diet. Beyond that, the monkeys on the restricted diet were healthier overall, with no diabetes, and fewer cases of cancer or cardiovascular disease.

"The monkeys on a normal diet also looked visibly older, their eyes more sunken in and their coats thinner and posture cramped when compared with their dieting counterparts," according to Ricki J. Colman, lead author of the paper.

It is assumed that since monkeys and humans are genetic cousins, such diets might slow aging in people, too. However, due to the long lifespan of people and the rigors of the diet, studies of calorie restriction in humans are ongoing and have yet to show that people live longer. Nonetheless, thousands of individuals now follow calorie restriction diets, hoping to discover what de Leon did not.

In the interest of understanding what life would be like on a calorie-restricted diet, I did some research and found a typical "day in the life." Here, soup to nuts, is the purported menu required for a longer time on this planet.

There you have it, the bill of fare to achieve a longer life. Don't get me wrong; I plan on hanging out on Mother Earth for many a decade. However, if a sweet potato smattered with a few drops of oil for dessert is the price to live to 125, I'm not quite sure it's worth it. Maybe I could have a chocolate bar once in awhile and make it to 120.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 14 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. Join him on facebook at facebook.com/scottqmarcus or follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

“So, I just went to my first meeting. I thought I’d call and let you know.”
 
I was eager to hear about it but didn’t want to come across as “too” eager; might scare him from talking. “I’m proud of you. How are you doing?”
 
Brief pause, analyzing his feelings; “Hard to explain, really. I felt extremely awkward when I first walked in. I really wanted to turn and run, but I decided I came this far; I’ll stay until I feel comfortable.”
 
“And did you get more comfortable?”
 
“Not much. I guess I’ve got to keep going back until I do.”
 
“Great attitude,” I said. “I can only imagine how much courage it took to show up. We’ve been talking about it for years. What made you finally decide to go?”
 
“I realized things weren’t going to get any better until I made them better. I’m tired of feeling bad all the time. I felt like I was trapped. I was always angry. I was ruining my relationships. It was just time. Any of the above; all of the above, you name it.”
 
“I’m glad you decided to take care of yourself.”
 
“Yeah, I know it’s going to be a long journey but I might as well get started. It’s not going to get any shorter by waiting, is it?”
 
I chuckled, “No, you’re probably right. So, can you tell me what it was like?”
 
“Well, there were about 30 people, about five of us were first-timers. I introduced myself when they asked who was new. Everyone said, ‘hi,’ just like you see in the movies. Then, several people got up and told stories. I sat and listened.”
 
“Hear anything useful?”
 
“Yeah, several people sounded like they were telling my story, always trying to do everything perfect, getting really upset when other people don’t do what they say, blaming everyone else for what goes wrong; you know how I can get.”
 
“Yes I do.”
 
“One guy talked about the difference between peace and serenity. He used a grocery store example. Want to hear it?”
 
“Sure, I really would.”
 
“He said, ‘You know when you stand in line at the checkout and the sign says MAXIMUM 10 ITEMS? You’ve achieved peace when you see someone in front of you with 12 items and you don’t let it bother you.’”
 
“How do you know when you’ve achieved serenity?”
 
“When you don’t count the items.”
 
“I like that.”
 
“Me too. I’m tired of counting everyone’s items. I’ve got to take care of my own if I want things to get better.”
 
“How did everyone treat you?”
 
“Really warm; very, very friendly. Nobody knew me. But they didn’t care. They all seemed really glad to see me, shook my hand, welcomed me to the meeting. I felt like I was coming home to family. That’s part of the reason I’ll go back.”
 
“So, I know it’s only your first meeting, but did you hear anything special?”
 
“Oh yeah, I’ve got loads to think about.”
 
“What stands out?”
 
Long pause, “Nothing happens until you ask for help. There are lots of people who will help, but you’ve got to open the door.”
 
About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 14 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. Join him on facebook at facebook.com/scottqmarcus or follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

Next to my bed is a nightstand. I presume that is a common arrangement in many bedrooms. Upon the shelf of the nightstand are many books; this too I assume is widespread. Like me, I take for granted that many people have three categories of books populating their nightstands:

Some wait to be read. While at a bookstore, the concept between its covers was so striking that I plunked down money, thinking, “I will read that someday.” Alas, “someday” has yet to make its appearance. Being optimistic, I’m sure it will (probably about the same time as when “I get my act together”).

The second classification is books started but still unfinished. Maybe I lost interest, the story was not as expected, or simply “life kicked in.” I could give them away but feel like I betrayed them, (does co-dependence apply to books?) so I pledge to finish reading them in the future. Until that fateful moment, they too shall gather dust.

Finally comes the definitive category: Books completed. Residing here include authors such as Robert B. Parker, Dean Koonz, and Roger McBride Allen. Most are novels because I like to “escape.” However, there is one self-help book I have read over and over again. Although I do not buy into everything she says, How To Heal Your Life by Louise Hay is infused with 210 pages of brilliantly simple wisdom (usually the best kind).

Hay’s philosophy, outlined in the foreword, includes:
•    We are each responsible for our experiences
•    Resentment, criticism, and guilt are damaging, and
•    It’s only a thought, which can be changed.

Furthermore, says Hay, feelings are “thoughts that stick.”

This begets clarification. Most of our stream of consciousness flowing between our ears is emotionally neutral. However, periodically, for better or worse, we draw a thought from the current and focus on it. The longer we drill, the more emotional the thought. Emotions drive change. Change affects our future. So, put two and two together and one can see that thoughts actually do manifest themselves as our lives.

For example, I weigh 179 pounds. This is a statement of fact, a thought that might fire across my synapses upon stepping on a scale. It is as colorless as mayonnaise on white bread. However, should I place deep attention upon it, I might generate follow-up thoughts such as, “Is 179 a good weight or a bad weight? … What do others weigh? … How come some weigh less? … Should I weigh less also? … Why don’t I weigh what they weigh? …  I must not be as good as they are.”

Voila! From a neutral thought is born an emotion; in this case, a negative, limiting sentiment comparing myself unfavorably to others and placing myself in a position of inferiority. I have now made myself feel bad, incapable, damaged. Because of that, I am inclined to spend my time lurking in emotionally dark places, less disposed to attempt new things, maintaining the status quo — and most likely consoling myself with copious amounts of chocolate.

Conversely, should I determine 179 is a mighty fine number, thank you very much; one of which I feel proud; I am empowered, energized, and uplifted. I pursue life with fervor and engage it readily, all from a position of strength.

The thought, the number, is neutral. What words I use in my internal dialogue about it decide my feelings. Should I feel unhappy, stagnant, or trapped; it might be a beacon that it’s time to change my thoughts; an idea certainly worth thinking about.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 14 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. His new inspirational magazine, “Two Words,” was just released at  www.TwoWordsMagazine.com. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com

She was dressed in pink sweatpants with the word, "sweet" emblazoned on her diaper-clad bottom. On her feet were brown clogs. Atop her head was a wool, knitted, patchwork cap of pink, yellow, and red, giving her a pastel "Rastafarian" look. However, instead of dreadlocks wrapped within, a waterfall of blonde, bouncy, curls framed her wide-open blue eyes and light complexion.

In her chubby, small, right hand, she carried what used to be a cookie; now, however, all that remained was a half eaten, saliva-covered, dollop of doughy goo with a smattering of pink frosting encrusting the edges. "Cookie" in hand, she bounded as if on springs from one corner of the bakery to the other, her grandfather always in eye shot, as she pointed to each of the items on the bottom shelf of the bakery's glass case, looking to him for the correct word.

"Cookie," he said, as she pointed to a green, sprinkle covered cut-out of a dinosaur.

She inspected the pastry, decided she was satisfied with his answer, and then proceeded to the next item, pointing her finger at the glass and looking to him for the mot juste.

"Donut," he said.

"Dunt," she echoed.

"Yes, that's right: donut," he replied, smiling and tussling her cap.

As she progressed along the casing, "bagel," "bearclaw," and "éclair" were added to her lexicon.

As young ones are prone to do, she became bored with the vocabulary lessons and resumed her exploration of the room, lifting and rising with each alternate footfall, swinging her gooey mass of drooly cookie remnant in her right hand. Methodically, she approached - one by one - the patrons at each table; each of whom couldn't help but smile (and this one in particular who was inspired by her actions to write).

As she made eye contact with each of us, there was no fear of judgment in her expression; no self-doubt, questioning what others thought of her actions. In this moment, at this time, she was complete, everything she needed to be. All in her world was perfect.

They - whomever "they" are - have erroneously told us that confidence is acquired as the result of years on the planet. Yet, after observing this energetic, welcoming, unabashed toddler, I wonder; maybe self-assurance is our birthright - not the self-doubt with which we saddle ourselves. As we grow older, in many ways we have become less ourselves, not more; little by little giving up what we want for fear of what "they" might say. And therefore, we put off our goals, we hide our dreams under a bushel, and rarely do we rise to the glory of who we can be. Said nineteenth century British politician, Benjamin Disraeli, "Most people will go to their graves with their music still in them."

Her adventure in the bakery now complete, a small white paper bag now clutched in her fist where the mushy pastry had been, she left the business, waving "bye-bye" to each of the customers while her grandfather held patiently open the heavy glass door.

It's interesting how much you can pick up from someone who can't even speak a word.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds more than 1four years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached, and his new booklet, "151 Easy Things You Can Try - Before You Give Up On Your Diet," can be found at www.WeightLossTipBooklet.com or 707.442.6243