so am I erasing myself? I hope I'm not erasing myself
Lately I've been dealing with, well, the aging process. Though I'm at my lowest adult weight, I'm not necessarily at my healthiest. In fact, the only time I may have been physically health post-puberty was that brief moment in 2002-03, when I could do hundreds of jumping jacks and over 100 push-ups per work out.
I find it ironic that though a deeply materialistic person, so little attention is drawn to my physical being, my body. My mind was always in a mess --and still is, to an extent -- so it is no wonder that my body was also a sack of sadness, shit, and decay. An overheard conversation made the point clear, a point I had dreaded but knew in my heart --in 2010, I was becoming a blob.
I don't know if this is the correct way to describe it, but since I like to link my personal narrative to broad sweeping narratives in history, I've sort of come up with the following: the gastric bypass was like the shock therapy, the shock to capitalism that East Europe felt post-1989. Though I haven't read it, that may also be in tune with Naomi Klein and The Shock Doctrine. This paragraph is a safe return to format, you see.
The desire to preserve this portion of my past, my livejournal, actually led to some action. I am working on it, as once more I find myself with the inevitable question --what the hell do I do with this journal? I reread some entries, from around this time of year, focusing mostly on 2005 and 2007. Two points must be made: (1) how depressed I was! (2) how much better my writing is today.
While depression and poor writing still are hallmarks of this journal, there is now more hope and better writing, despite some serious grammatical and typographic blunders. Of course, as the joke goes, I will gladly refund your subscription twofold should you dislike or disagree with any of the sentiments found here or in any entry.
Some changes, clearly, have been for the better. One of the most fascinating aspects is how many idioms and details I had forgotten about. In my writing I have a strange fascination with encoding entries with some sort of hidden meaning. Again, synapses fluttered but I couldn't put my finger on it. no, I can't put my finger on it.
The issue, then, is health-based. I found myself struggling with jogging. Though swimming and consistency there has led to seemingly better flexibility, there is so much more to do. When summer began, I was 210.9. Recently I had tipped the scales at 221.3. I'm happy to report a weight closer to the 210.9, and that it is a healthier, fitter weight. My shoulders arn't sagging and drooping and my "moobs" are significantly reduced. I can no longer clutch pencils with them. I feel like pulling a Jay Sherman --trying to put a pencil under my boob and congratulating myself that it just rolls to the ground.
There is an underlying issue, though, and this is what i'll end with: it's food, dummy. The most important choice one makes everyday, regardless of any sort of status is by deciding what energy with which to fuel ourselves. It has been a point longtime coming, as I grapple with fast food addiction and the decision and desire to absolve myself of one of 2 serious flaws I consider myself to have: the consumption of animal products. Plants need to play a larger role in my life, no doubt; however, though I haven't met a fruit I don't like, there are some vegetables that leave me bitter. I must untrain myself from the Westernized chemical dependency. But I love animal flesh. I have a serious lust, a carnal, animalistic urge to consume it. But there is shame and guilt.
I'll wrestle with this later. I had a personal break through earlier in this wake cycle that must be written, privately.
I find it ironic that though a deeply materialistic person, so little attention is drawn to my physical being, my body. My mind was always in a mess --and still is, to an extent -- so it is no wonder that my body was also a sack of sadness, shit, and decay. An overheard conversation made the point clear, a point I had dreaded but knew in my heart --in 2010, I was becoming a blob.
I don't know if this is the correct way to describe it, but since I like to link my personal narrative to broad sweeping narratives in history, I've sort of come up with the following: the gastric bypass was like the shock therapy, the shock to capitalism that East Europe felt post-1989. Though I haven't read it, that may also be in tune with Naomi Klein and The Shock Doctrine. This paragraph is a safe return to format, you see.
The desire to preserve this portion of my past, my livejournal, actually led to some action. I am working on it, as once more I find myself with the inevitable question --what the hell do I do with this journal? I reread some entries, from around this time of year, focusing mostly on 2005 and 2007. Two points must be made: (1) how depressed I was! (2) how much better my writing is today.
While depression and poor writing still are hallmarks of this journal, there is now more hope and better writing, despite some serious grammatical and typographic blunders. Of course, as the joke goes, I will gladly refund your subscription twofold should you dislike or disagree with any of the sentiments found here or in any entry.
Some changes, clearly, have been for the better. One of the most fascinating aspects is how many idioms and details I had forgotten about. In my writing I have a strange fascination with encoding entries with some sort of hidden meaning. Again, synapses fluttered but I couldn't put my finger on it. no, I can't put my finger on it.
The issue, then, is health-based. I found myself struggling with jogging. Though swimming and consistency there has led to seemingly better flexibility, there is so much more to do. When summer began, I was 210.9. Recently I had tipped the scales at 221.3. I'm happy to report a weight closer to the 210.9, and that it is a healthier, fitter weight. My shoulders arn't sagging and drooping and my "moobs" are significantly reduced. I can no longer clutch pencils with them. I feel like pulling a Jay Sherman --trying to put a pencil under my boob and congratulating myself that it just rolls to the ground.
There is an underlying issue, though, and this is what i'll end with: it's food, dummy. The most important choice one makes everyday, regardless of any sort of status is by deciding what energy with which to fuel ourselves. It has been a point longtime coming, as I grapple with fast food addiction and the decision and desire to absolve myself of one of 2 serious flaws I consider myself to have: the consumption of animal products. Plants need to play a larger role in my life, no doubt; however, though I haven't met a fruit I don't like, there are some vegetables that leave me bitter. I must untrain myself from the Westernized chemical dependency. But I love animal flesh. I have a serious lust, a carnal, animalistic urge to consume it. But there is shame and guilt.
I'll wrestle with this later. I had a personal break through earlier in this wake cycle that must be written, privately.