Heavy Topics

Well it appears I rather overestimated my stamina.

I set out three days ago to begin a daily publishing regimen, and the effort immediately fell flat.
I am writing this now completely sober.
I hadn't realized until right this instant how much I rely on alcohol to limber my fingers and loosen my tongue.
I am not dependent on it, per se, but a glass of wine certainly serves as a reassuring prop. I feel contempt for people who can only exercise or run with music. This past St. Patrick's Day Road Race a healthy percentage of the runners were pumping along with iPod earbuds in place, oblivious to their surroundings. I appreciate the advantage the right music can give you, increasing, as it does, heart rate and thus blood flow. Still, one of the appeals of racing is the crowd. One wishes -- at least this one wishes -- to interact with one's fellow racers on a tangible, primal level. One wants to hear their ragged breath, see the sweat glistening on their shoulders and foreheads. One wished to be aware of the event as it happens. Music detracts from this. I have an advantage, as a trail runner. Music is discouraged and occasionally forbidden on the trail runs. The terrain is so treacherous and the tracks so narrow that any distractions are hazardous for oneself and others. As such, I am well used to trotting along with only the sounds of the forest and of my own blood pounding in my ears.
Anyway, I express disdain for those who use music as a crutch while running, and yet stumble myself at writing when the security blanket of booze is taken away. the ol' focusing on the mote in mine neighbor's eye and ignoring the beam in mine own chesnut.

Nevertheless, wine-less, I proceed.

I have a curious view of human weakness. I recognize, as a humanist, that it is a necessary part of existence, but that it must be fought with diligence and ferocity -- the fight is of course another part of human existence. And, in a less abstract, more pragmatic way, I feel human weakness -- and I mean intellectual, physical, and emotional, must be overcome in order for us to move ahead as a species.
Still, a significant part of me rejoices at stupidity or obesity, because it means I am smarter and stronger by comparison. I realize this is near-sighted and selfish to the point of insanity, but it is quantifiably true.

Now, sequing rather roughly, I have no real problem with most fat people. I was fat for most of my life. I still have weight issues. I appreciate more than most just how hard it is to get into shape and stay that way. And the more full-figured look is appropriate for some people. My employer is overweight -- has been, if high school yearbook photos are to be trusted, for his whole adult life. But he carries it well. His body type accomodates the poundage gracefully and his personality matches his physicality.
Women, in my opinion, look good fuller figures. I, as an active individual, am most attracted in a joint sexual/emotional way to women who are fit, toned, and tight as steel cables. But I find the Rubenesque ladies appealing in a general way. The female form is designed to be soft and curvy.
But! I despise fat people who should not be fat, who are overweight in an awkward, unbalanced way. And I especially hate people who are fat and don't care. I'm not sure why this should be. If a person is happy, or at least unconcerned, with who they are, why should that bother me? I feel it is two-fold. Recalling the above musings, I am angered that human being would not want to better him- or herself, for the good of humanity. But, deeper and more insidious than that, I am angered that a person could be happy being overweight when I spend so much of my time and energy struggling to be sleek and sexy. I am in decent physical condition, in terms of pure capability. I have known individuals with bulging gym-toned muscles unable to finish a day of manual labor or complete a short hike. Likewise I have known people of average, even chubby or seemingly frail physiques to possess hidden depths of physical strength. And, apart from being physically capable, my body is not unpleasant to look upon. But I still worry over it. I stand in front of the mirror every day scrutinizing my body, thinking about how it could be improved upon. I am careful with my diet. I hit the gym as often as I can.
Now, don't fret about my sanity. I don't have an eating disorder. I do not obsess about my body. I am aware of it, though, as we all are of our bodies. It upsets me to think that some people can be at home with slovenly, pudgy bodies. I feel like I might be wasting my time exercising.


Not a terrible day, all things considered.
I ate a tasty breakfast, visited the health club, and made my way to work, where I assembled the patio. I did much of the heavy lifting m'self, as is my wont, and then performed the busy work with erstwhile restaurant manager Ed. He and I agreed the patio set-up gets worse every year. We feel as though we're trapped in some weird existentialist play. Two characters, a tedious task, actions with amount to nothing in pursuit of ill-defined goals, as subject to the whim of a capricious off-stage presence. My afternoon from one until three seemed to have been written by Samuel Beckett.


Afterwards I rode my bike to Open Square and engaged in some Restorative Yoga, or, as I call it, "Napping in awkward positions with props."

Now I'm watching vintage X-Files, digesting steak and salad, and plodding away on this blog.

I believe I'll call it a night for now, though. As Estragon would say, there's nothing to be done.