I Have Some Catching Up To Do

It's been a long, semi-deliberate pause in the darklord's blog. Yes it has.

There is much afoot. The changes that are being wrought across the landscape of my goddamn mind are... effluvious (if I may use a completely inappropriate and partially made-up word).

In fact, it seems almost silly to attempt to make a record of them, so fleeting are they in substance. I change completely one day, and then the next day it's as if I was always this way, and now I'm changing again. It's a tumoult, is what it is, like an avalanche of changes in the way I think, feel, and look out upon the world, as if somewhere along the line (maybe, I dunno, when I stopped eating all the fucking time) I pulled loose that one big rock, and it tumbled down onto that other rock, and there was this cracking noise, and suddenly the whole cliff face is in vertical descent.

...I may sound like I'm exerting hyerpbole into the paragraph you just read (assuming that you didn't just skip to this paragraph). In a way, that is true, and given my well-established propensity for exaggeration, not surprising, but at the same time, I don't know that I am actually overstating the effects.

Let me give you an example. This morning I had a conversation with my darling wife regarding our current financial system, and it's robustness and shortcomings. Now, in the past, merely mentioning this general category of topics would a) make my hair stand up on end, b) make my eyes go all wide and spooky, and c) cause molten lava to actually pour from my mouth.

Ask my wife, she'll confirm all of this.

This morning, however, in contrast to the above, I took in fact and fiction, offered opinions and explored the data, and...

...well, I had a conversation about it, didn't I? Yessir, I think I did. A conversation that was utterly impossible not four months ago. I'm talking Rain Man impossible here, like bashing my head against the wall to make it stop make it stop make it stop kind of thing. This, not surprisingly, causes my wife a certain amount of discomfort and concern. She has come to the not unreasonable conclusion that there are some topics best left, shall we say, off the table. Thus, I believe it was something of a surprise to her to be having something that amounted to an exchange of data with me on this previously debilitating topic.

I offer this by way of example. This is one of dozens of areas of my life that have smoothed rightthefuckout, seemingly through the effort of some freakin' change-causing-system, one that is not being dictated to by me. All I'm doing is showing up to meetings and calling people who share my affliction, and some... thing seems to have been engaged.

Man.

You want a rather astounding, real time example of how this is affecting me?

Here we go.

Ready?

...

When I started writing this post, I wrote the title above because I haven't told you about my World of Warcraft exploits in some time, and much has happened.

And yet, here I am, at the bottom of the page, and no WoW content.

You see? This improves your life as well.

It's Better Than Epic Lewt

I shake my head in wonder as I write this. The changes that have been underway in the depths of what passes for my mind these days are... ye gods, dare I use the word "profound?"

...

Nah, too pretentious. And, considering that it's me saying that, I believe that really says something. "Remarkable" will have to do.

Either way, I cannot help but comment on... my... uh...

Well, quite frankly, my emotions. I know, I know, you didn't come here to hear about my emotions. "Tell us about your Epic Loot some more, darklord!" you shout. "We haven't had an update on your Molten Core exploits in, like, two days!" Yeah, well, stand by, man. Sometimes stuff happens that is more important than WoW. Okay?! Read the freakin' subtitle of this blog, man. You were warned.

I may have mentioned my turkey farming, and its recent losses. One could say we're in the red on this farm, and in a big way. I recently took stock of the situation, and I'll be goddamned if we haven't lost another two of those five-pound mumbajimbas.

But that's not really the point here, to be fair. Turkey loss is all to the good, I mean who the fuck wants to live surrounded by turkeys, for cryin' out loud, but today, today, friends, I want to describe to you another side of this process that flat out startled me, and in a way that I believe will lower what little esteem of me you may have left by a full 'nother notch.

I now regularly attend a gathering of sorts, where all kinds of folks engaged in this turkey business come together to share with other sympathetic ears about how fucked up a business it really is. It's kinda the main thing that's been making this work for me, to be honest; pulling myself out of my daily grind for 90 minutes and sitting with folks who have the same struggles that I do... well whaddaya know. It makes it easier to bear. Huh. Who'da thought.

But there are rules to this gathering. And those of you who know me know that in some profound way I am made of rules. I seem to have in fact dedicated my life to the discovery and expression of rules, particularly those rules that coalesce into a digital fantasy. So, it may be no surprise to find that I find these rules quite interesting. And the ones that sound like challenges... well.

The rule I want to talk about today is the "you can't get up in front of the group and speak until you've been followin' da rules for 90 days" rule.

Imagine, now. Yours truly, for the past 90 days, has been sitting in this group, silent, prevented from getting up there. It. Has. Been. Driving. Me. Mental. I have, in fact, had ample opportunity to consider the idea that this is partially why this rule exists: to motivate we of the attention-getters clan. It causes me despair that having full knowledge of the fact that I'm being remorselessly manipulated in no way changes the efficacy of that manipulation. "90 days, huh?? Oh YEAH?? Well, then, I'll see you in 90 days!!" [sits silently and pouts]

Well, friends, no more. After (lesse, does the math, ummm, let's say on average 2.5 meetings a week, 12 weeks, say ...) 30 meetings of quietly, patiently (and, I must admit, appreciatively and attentively) holding my tongue, last night I got the fuck up there.

And it was funny, by the time I actually made it to the front, I had only gratitude and simple explanation of what brought me there to offer. After walking the path for three months, it was enough... by far enough... to simply be able to get up there and say something. It was awesome.

And here's where it went all darklord on me. I finished, and I went back, and I sat down, and as I savored the final moments of my first official share, here is the the thought that popped unbidden into my head:

"That... was even better... than getting Epic Loot. Better."

Sweet Jesus. I really need to stop playing WoW one of these days.

um... hi.

[sheepish look]

Uh, yeah. Hi. It's... been a while.

...

Let's just cut right to the chase: I'm been undergoing what I can only describe as a complete renovation of my internal motivation systems.


It doesn't really do to underemphasize how profound the last two and half months have been. All bullshit aside, I'm fucking tearing up (all weepy-like) as I'm typing this shit. Seriously.

It seems dumb to me to make the statement that something as simple as getting into a place where my eating habits are healthy could have such a vast effect on me, but... that is, in fact, the case.

Actually, I suppse that considering that my eating habits were killing me, I suppose it's not so suprising. But still.

I mentioned a while back that I've misplaced a couple of these 5-pound turkeys I've been carrying around in my belly. Well, I gotta say, the goddamn things keep going missing. I've lost eight of those motherfuckers so far, and... I'll tell ya, I don't really miss them. They can kinda stay lost for all I care, actually.

But here's the thing. The actual turkeys aren't so much the issue. It's the sanity that is the really big thing. I mean...

uh...

Let's say it this way.

When I was employed in the business of raising and breeding those turkeys, I was a little nuts. And, even though I was a little nuts, I clear enough to be pretty sure that those turkeys would rise up someday , break free of their little pen, and peck the holy hell outta me. Peck me to death, you understand. Guarenteed. That was rather unnerving, given that I was busily feeding and raising those plump little bastards. I mean... why?

Now, looking back on it, I'm understanding better my contribution to that turkey pen. And, the really frightening thing is that I've come to understand that I've got a goddamn turkey farmer inside me (let's call him "Clem"), and he's absolutely dedicated to the idea that I need as many turkeys in that pen as I can manage get my hands on.

Clem and I don't really see eye to eye on the turkey issue.

Fortunately, I have friends. It appears I'm not the only one with a turkey farmer inside them, and it's startlingly helpful to sit and talk with other folks who understand and fear their own version of Clem (be they Leeroy, Agnes, Wilbur, or Edna). Something about it works, and I intend to stick with it. The alternative seems to be going back into the turkey farming business , and that terrifies me.

Like, really, for sure, actual fear, not just theoretical fear, but grips-yer-heart-with-cold-clenching-death kind of fear. Yeah, like that. Fear.

Anyway.

Good to be back, great to see you all. Lemme know if you find any of my turkeys.

Discussing Weighty Matters

My blogging has dwindled of late. You may have noticed. Let me assure you (as I have in previous posts) that I have my reasons.

I am going to try to explain those reasons now.

...

Sigh. Listen, it isn't that I don't love you, because I do. You know that, all the time we've spent together, the long walks, the phone calls... it's not about that, you have to believe that.

It's just... that... see... um...

...

Yeah, that's not working. Let me try another tact.

So, there's stuff I really can't tell you about. Like, for example, [--REDACTED FOR YOUR PROTECTION--], and [--REDACTED FOR YOUR PROTECTION--]. You know, the really [--OMITTED--] stuff.

But I do try.

[ ASIDE: ] The strangest thing about this moment is that I find myself wanting to write. Honestly, when I started this whole "bloggy" thing, I was convinced that in three weeks we would be looking at a withered stump of a blog -- four posts spread out across twenty days, with declining interest and nothing inspiring.

But, here we are, just over a year later, and I'm actually getting more interested in the process by the day.

So what the fuck do I do when the topic is too personal? I mean, do I really want the entire Interweb knowing that [--OMITTED AT THE REQUEST OF THE VATICAN--]? I mean, that's some pretty [--CENSORED--] stuff!!

No! No I don't! But... I want to write about it! WTF?!?!

Not sure. Whatever. [ /ASIDE ]

The short version is that, as I've mentioned, my relationship with food fucking blows.

And, over the last few months, I've stumbled onto some rather startling... life-changing... things ... that have led to my colleagues saying things like "Ye gods, man, what, do you have a wasting disease or something?" and "Hey, stick-boy! Over here!"

I welcome this strange, new world with frank astonishment, because I can assure you, it is not some new injection of willpower or self-discipline that has caused this change. No friends. It is, instead that I fucking asked for help.

Like, really, actually, for reals this time. I have come to understand what the word "plea" means. Also "begging for your life". Turns out you can eat yourself to death, and at this point I have some passing familiarity with what that road looks like.

I think I finally asked the right people for help. I hope so, anyway. Point is, after what I would describe as a long, thorn-strewn road, I've been sane and happy for like two whole weeks, and that is a bit of a shift for me. I'll keep you posted on my progress; right now I've misplaced at least four 5-pound turkeys that I've been carrying around in my belly for the last year. I'm not entirely sure where they went, but they are certainly gone.

If you're curious and want more data, just ask.

My Belly Spilleth Over

I hate getting fat.

It's hopelessly degrading, and frustrating, and humiliating, and life-threatening, and stupid. Yet, here I am.

At lunch yesterday, I was talking about my fascination with my stupid behavior with a smoker friend of mine, and we hit on a remarkable shared experience: that of standing there, observing yourself engaging in a behavior you know will kill you if you sustain it over time, and having the knowledge of that fact affect your behavior in no way whatsoever.

It's amazing, actually. I stand there, look at some fattening snack that I don't need, and think to myself "that's the shit that I need to stop eating, right there. That's the bad stuff." And then, I walk over, and help myself to it.

o.O

(That's an emoticon for raising one eyebrow, by the way. See? It's two eyes? The period is the nose? Yeah. Picked that up on WoW, and have been unable to stop. Again with the compulsive behavior.)

What's even more remarkable is that I have, in the past, managed to connect the notion of continuing to eat like I do with denying my kids of their father in their adulthood. I mean, if I keep this up, there's a good chance I'm going to kick it before my grandchildren are in highschool.

Consider that I know what that feels like. My dad died in his sleep at 51 (of being fat, methinks), and I still harbor a certain resentment against him for giving me an adulthood without him. It sucks, frankly.

Yet, I stand there, looking at the open bag o' Doritos that my co-workers have thoughtfully left out on the table after our TGIFriday meeting, and go ahead and take a few.

Or, a lot. What's astounding to me is that I can see my children's faces as I'm doing this, and it doesn't prevent me from taking the destructive action.

What. The. Fuck.

I have, it seems, a remarkable ability to embrace and endure horrendous internal paradoxes. The strongest emotion I feel about all this is fascination and horror, horror at my lack of horror over my actions (if that makes sense).

My talent, it seems, is to be able to observe the horrendous, in both the abstract and the personal, and understand it very deeply. This, without any desire to actually alter the (infinitely predictable) outcome that awaits at the end of the road I'm walking.

Perhaps to distract myself from the fate in store for me, I have become quite bemused by certain small things that have happened along the road to robustness. I have an idea that all large men go through these little milestones, that they are a kind of shared cultural event (like driving a car for the first time, or your first sexual experience).

These, however, I imagine are only discussed when among other men, and only when sitting around a table somewhere reasonably anonymous. Like a bar. With drinks to lubricate the mind.

Here, then, is the progression of initiations I encountered, and which I am coming to believe all men encounter, while traveling on the road to becoming a Fat Boy:

The Belly
The first event was when I stopped simply growing larger in general, and began to poke out in front. The arrival of the actual belly is a moment not easily forgotten, and is filled with horror. Dieting ensues.

Then, horror fades, and is replaced by familiarity. Dieting skips, stutters, and dies.

The Hanging Shirt
The second great event was when I could no longer bear to tuck in my shirt. Time it was that tucking in my shirt made for good form, and I could boldly carry my chest about (as it was still larger than the supporting gut).

Then, one day, tucking it in only made it more clear how much larger my gut was than my waist.

The best solution to this, as it turns out, is to simply leave the shirt untucked. A draped shirt, you see, although it doesn't actually hide the enormousness underneath it, at least obscures it. Button-down shirts are actually better for this than T-shirts.

Since I made this discovery, I have been observing my well-gutted friends and co-workers and, uh, everyone I see. And lo, I'll be damned if every single one of them hasn't learned the same trick. Some go for sports jerseys, some go for button downs, but no one save those most comfortable with their rotundity tuck the goddamn thing in. Look around, see for yourself.

The Belly Drops
The most recent event (and, in some ways, the most horrifying) was the day that I realized not only that I had been holding in my gut for years, but that I could not, in fact, hold it in any longer.

I swear, this is what happened: I woke up one morning, looked at myself in the mirror, noticed that I was straining to keep it in, and let it go... and I gained 20 pounds in 0.2 seconds.

I told this story to a friend of mine at work. He laughed and laughed (I have very sensitive, kind friends), and said that he was wondering what had happened, because I looked like I had gained a bunch of weight recently. I assured him that it was just my belly dropping.

Take a look around, and see if you can find any men that have a sort-of large belly. I daresay, you won't find many. There's no-belly guys (who are holding it in), and then there's large belly guys (who let it all hang out). I haven't seen many in-betweeners.

...

That's it so far. What horrors lie in store in the future, my dear and beloved friends? I'll keep you posted.

Almost Like An Excuse

So now I'm pondering weight loss.

It's nearly impossible to discuss (or, heck, to even think) about this topic without shipping in a truckload of baggage from far-flug locations. At least, it is if you're a middle-class 30-something 'merican deeply dipped in the cultural fondue of the States. But, as it turns out, ya kinda hafta try anyway, mountains of baggage or no.

Let's start at some random spot in the middle.

My wife recently came back from a trip to Paris (or, Paree, as it is known), and returned bright-eyed and inspired by the notoriously pragmatic approach French ladies take to their food. That is, they don't eat very much of it. Remarkably, this keeps them thin.

...

You can taste the irony in that paragraph I crafted for you, can't you? One eyebrow raised, just a little, the barest hint of a smile, to see if you'll get the joke? Okay, good. Now, imagine that that's the best I've been able to do over the course of my years on this rotating rock to confront the issue of my belly. I can summon irony about the topic at will; I'm an expert at smiling at the painful truth of our collective (and my specific) inability to remain slender over the long-term. But so far all that has done has made me clever and fat.

Soon, if this continues, I will be clever and dead.

Here's the thing: I've watched many of my various compatriots try and fail at an abundance of tactics designed to deal with this scourge. My father was weighty, and it killed him, and he struggled his entire life with this or that or this or now I'm gonna only eat rocks.

From observing this constant flailing, I deduced that temporary "self-control-based" solutions seem to lead to long-term failure. I'm not certain that this is right, but I'm like 95%. Which is to say, I think it's an unlikely path to success.

So, what, then?

I think my best thought so far is environmental design. Which is to say, construct a life that requires me to behave in the manner that will keep me alive until my late 90's.

What behavior are we talking about here? To wit: thin people fall into two broad categories: the ones who don't eat very much, and the ones who don't eat very much and excercise a lot. The ones that exercise are broad, and the ones that don't are skinny. I'm broad, so which behavior is appropriate for me seems clear.

This means that I must design a life that requires me to starve and excercise for the right to continue my pursuits.

So, that's the general parameters of the problem. Doesn't sound too hard, does it? So why the fatness?

Not sure. But, I'm starting to wonder about one thing: I have been operating under the supposition that I have a remarkable lack of self-discipline when it comes to changing my behavior around eating and exercising. Now, history is certainly my friend when it comes to finding evidence for this. But...

...doesn't that sound convenient to you? I mean... you know...