This week, I am exercising my human prerogative to change my mind. I ended last week’s column promising to delve into the bizarre portfolio of Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Donald Trump’s nominee for Director of the Department of Health and Human Services. Truth be told, I was not looking forward to diving into that cesspool, but I now feel that I have been generously let off the hook by Mickey Friedman’s really spectacular column last weekend. Mr. Friedman’s essay was sharp, funny, eloquent, relevant, and very well researched, and I recommend that anyone wanting to understand Mr. Kennedy’s absolute unfitness for that position should read Mr. Friedman’s column in its entirety. Thanks, Mickey.
A number of readers in the MAGA-verse have previously suggested that I am suffering from a condition known as Trump Derangement Syndrome, and perhaps they are right, although it seems to me that the person who suffers most from that condition is Mr. Trump himself. Nevertheless, my persistent fear and dread of what America will become after four more years of a chest-beating, egomaniacal bully in the Oval Office has begun to take a serious toll on my physical and emotional well-being.
This has resulted in my own unique form of Trump Derangement Syndrome: a galloping case of anorexia. Formerly slim but fit, I am now skeletal. I began to lose my appetite in the summer of 2020, as I watched the news one evening and saw all of the corner mailboxes in Portland, Ore., being removed and loaded onto flat-bed trailers, in the middle of an incredibly consequential election, during a deadly pandemic, when the safest way to cast a ballot was by mail.
It was then that I had my first major meltdown.
It was clear to me at that moment that Mr. Trump was going to try to steal the election by disenfranchising not only the voters of Oregon but voters everywhere. When that failed to sufficiently corrupt the electoral process, Donald Trump did what I knew he would do: He attempted to seize power by force. Thankfully, the coup failed.
Finally, I thought, we can return to a rational-if-uninspiring presidency and a more typical level of ambient national dissatisfaction with the federal government.
It is now clear that I was mistaken in that belief, and so my weight, by comparative mass, is currently equivalent to that of a Chihuahua. I could fit comfortably inside any one of Paris Hilton’s Birkin bags.
The fact that my beloved mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer in early June 2023 and died six weeks later did nothing to improve my appetite. In January of this year, I flew to her now-unoccupied house in Nevada and emptied it to prepare it for sale. I wrote about that experience in mid-January (“Closing the circle, part three — Finale“). Now, for the second time in less than a year, I am packing up another home, my own, in preparation for an out-of-state move. This has left me perilously close to having to be hospitalized.
At this point, oatmeal, Cheerios, and several hideously sweet containers of Boost nutritional supplement per day are saving my life. My partner, who is infinitely more perceptive than I, has wisely directed that I severely limit my daily consumption of news, which has become a major impediment to my well-being. I have taken that advice to heart and intend to steer clear of the iceberg of national politics for the time being, lest I suffer the same fate as the Titanic.
I will continue to write—just not about that. I am not at all afraid of the political or personal repercussions of standing against the evil that Trump and his enablers represent to our country, but I am very much afraid of dying of starvation. I am comforted by the fact that Mickey Friedman, Stephen Cohen, and other talented political malcontents at The Berkshire Edge will carry the torch more skillfully, more tactfully, and more intelligently than I.
If I can achieve a normal weight, I will happily return to pointing out the assault on democracy that will accelerate during the second Trump presidency, but until that moment arrives, you will see more of the folksy Vickie Shufton and less of the Vickie Shufton who is being destroyed by a political climate over which she has no control.
You’re welcome.
In the midst of these challenges, my partner and I were mercifully invited this year to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of our close friends, Oskar Hallig and Mike Zippel. They have watched me gradually decompose over the course of several years, so I knew I could rely on them not to be offended by my paltry attempt to consume a micro-portion of what might easily qualify as the most excessive meal of the year. It also came as no small relief to have a reprieve from packing like a maniac. The opportunity to spend an evening in the warm embrace of friends so close that we consider them family was its own important form of nourishment, and for this I am deeply grateful.
A fire burned merrily in the wood stove, liquor flowed, and laughter was in abundant supply. As is always the case on Thanksgiving, the house smelled divine, and I was pleased to eat what I could of a meal that took days to prepare and mere minutes to consume.
So this year, I am thankful indeed: thankful for the enduring love and concern of my partner; thankful for the generosity of my friends; thankful that I will not have to worry about what to do with a refrigerator full of Thanksgiving leftovers; thankful for oatmeal and Cheerios and Boost; and very thankful indeed that my TV remote has an off button.
On a final note, the reason that Oskar and Mike are like siblings to us is that Bobbie Hallig, Oskar’s mother, is our treasured friend of many decades, and the de facto mother of us all. There is no soul on earth who is more generous than Bobbie, nor is there a smarter brain. Bobbie is so smart, in fact, that she has wisely chosen to spend the colder months in a location much warmer than the chilly Berkshires.
We missed you, Bobbie. Happy holidays to you, and to all avid readers of The Edge.
