I sit at the keyboard with a yearning to speak of the things that cause issue in my life, and I find that there are distressingly few items of true concern. Not to say, that is, that impediments to serenity no longer exist. I take umbrage at a number of things, and rightfully so. This week it is in the realm of rotundity. The last post on this page spoke of rituals and fixated nature that is my, or could be if I allow it, Armageddon. Corpulence is my reality and my curse. The solution to that curse is not readily available. At least not in the timely manner I desire.
I take exception to the bureaucratic requirements of my health insurance and the propensity I have towards unreasonableness and irritation. Having said that, it has come to my attention that, I projected the moral value that many people of lesser girth indeed suffer from the stigma of illegitimacy, or of possessing female parentage of questionable deportment. Well, with the exception of those near and dear to me, I believe my characterizations have not been made in err. The anger I encounter is an old and warm friend that I have had much difficulty putting in the grave where it belongs. I also suffer from a diminished capacity to express regret for that which I write that offends.
The point I make today is that I have found a method of blaming my Dear Sainted Mother, once more, for the more negative parts of my personality. Loving and greatly missed, she is probably waiting for me to show up in the Great Beyond so that she can wallop me with the old broken wooden spoon she possessed in my childhood. The same spoon that gives me fits when I am in the Land of Nod.
This particular gripe comes straight out of my inability to control that aspect of my life where it comes to eating. After the episode with my insurance company, I became (wow isn’t this a stretch) upset. I ranted and raved both on the web, as my readers can attest, but also to my dear companions on the journey that is recovery. Said grievances held little relief in that I enjoy being irritated, and that selfsame irritation accomplished nothing towards the resolution of the underlying problem of my weight. I thought about this and made a decision. A resolve to action the likes of which my friends have told me is monumental and earth shaking.
I quit drinking milk.
Now this is not in and of itself such a momentous feat to the normal person on the street, but in my life it is paramount to the mountain actually and physically going to Mohamed. I imbibe milk in the same manner that I formerly obsessively and compulsively used mind altering, mood changing substances. Additionally I have also taken ice cream and sweets away. This is comparable to taking a fish out of water, or a soldier being relieved of his weapon in the middle of a battle. I drink, on average, a gallon of milk a day. A half gallon carton of ice cream is a two serving portion. Sweets are a necessity prior to retiring for the night. Cool Whip is a staple food in my household.
And I have abandoned all of these old friends.
I would like to say that it is in the noble quest for a reduction in my girth. I would like to say that it is for the greater good. I would like to say many things that would sound good and noble, and make you think that I have finally taken charge of my life in a positive manner. Unfortunately, the certainty is that I have done this to spite those who suffer from the stigma of illegitimacy, or of possessing female parentage of questionable deportment.
When I was earlier in recovery, I had an argument with a person in my life whose only method of winning the disagreement included a statement that my point did not really matter in that I was destined to die as a result of using some drug or drink. He accused me of insincerity in the pursuit of recovery, and told me that I was a loser.
This is much the same thinking that many have where it comes to obesity. We are losers.
I shall not detail those areas of my life that would prove or disprove any image of me, either positive or negative. I will not engage in a battle of wits with unarmed opponents. I will continue to avoid the dairy section of my Mercantile of Choice. I will eat more vegetables and I will do so because I think it is the right thing to do.
That is not to say that this plan is going to work. I realized after I made this decision that I had remaining in my refrigerator a slice of apple pie and some sugar free cool whip. It has got to be some kind of cosmic mortal sin not to drink milk with apple pie. Some things are just incontrovertible. I could not throw this ambrosia away. There are children in China starving.
I come from that generation that grew up with the now famous Red Scare. In that time, the propaganda was that the communists in China were withholding food and nourishment from everyone that disagreed with their ideology. Including children. When I was given something by Herself that I did not want, she would remind me of the famished children living along the Yangtze River, or in Outer Mongolia. There was no argument with the Dear Sainted One where it came to food. You ate what was there, and you ate it all.
It has just occurred to me that when I was a child there were about six hundred million Chinese and today that number is more then doubled. Where are all these hungry rug rats? Not struggling to move or get around like I am. Did Herself lie to me? I think not. I think I heard what she said and complied because I knew that if I did, then I would get apple pie and Cool Whip. (With sugar in it)
The injustice of my decision to remove certain things from my diet came in the propaganda of the past, and my irritation at my situation. I believe that I will continue to ruminate on the issue of my weight until I do, in fact, come to a healthy paradigm. But not today.
What did I do about the pie? I bought a quart of milk instead of a gallon, and I ate the damn pie. I am committed, not perfect. Why did I fall short of my goal? Perhaps there were no scrawny persons of questionable parentage I was particularly irritated at that day. Or maybe it was Mommy’s fault. Peace