I have never, ever been as physically unhealthy as I am right now. I have quite actively and aggressively “let myself go” of late. I’ve been smoking more, not eating well, barely sleeping, and not working out. I’ve had a “work out and avoid naughty foods OR ELSE” mentality for the past ten years, and it makes me both relieved and anxious to be taking this break. I’m on strike.

Yeah, but the little inner protestor in this situation is one of those ignorant hippies* who protests for the sake of protesting, without awareness of even a smidgen of ideology to back up his actions (or lack thereof). This longhair is all burnt out from too many years of eating acid, and reads conspiracy theories into the cracks in the sidewalk. Really, he’s** an idiot who fights The Man so blindly that he wouldn’t actually recognize The Man even if he hitched a ride in The Man’s BMW.

When I was in 11th grade, one of the grunge-rock kids, Eric, ran for Student Counsel Secretary. His campaign posters featured a giant hand punching the air, under which were the words, “RAISE YOUR FIST AND RESIST! – Eric Black for Secretary.” Yes, indeed. As Class Secretary, Eric was going to stage a revolution, planting the seed of rebellion in Prettyhow, Massachusetts High School by attending useless meetings about prom and taking notes with the cool kids.

I would have appreciated the campaign if it was tongue-in-cheek, but believe me, Eric’s sense of irony had been far too dulled by weed at that point, and he wasn’t very bright to begin with. Nice kid, but no Che Guevara. He was just trying to be difficult.

My inner anti-diet hippie has that same ignorant, foot-stamping quality. “Fuck you, man! Fuck you, resting heart rate! Fuck you blood pressure! Fuck you 'good cholesterol' levels, whatever the hell you are! Fuck you metabolism! Your arbitrary rules of sleep and nutrition have oppressed me long enough, man! Fuck you.”

I know, I know I’m just fucking myself. I know, also, that that’s not a shocking revelation. One of the cornerstones of eating disorder maintenance is an obsessive pursuit of knowledge about nutrition and exercise. I’ve read the articles and kept the lists and taken the motherfucking pills and pumped the iron and done the sprints and yes, seen the results, but goddammit, goddammit, GOOD NIGHT to them all. I’m pressing the snooze button. I’m rolling over. I! AM! ON! VACATION!

This is a bad idea, I know it’s arbitrary and self-righteous, and it’s not forever, I hope. The attitude of “Fuck you, oppressive workout regime and high protein nazis!” could progress to unprecedented levels.

“Fuck you, climbing a flight of stairs without having to stop to rest halfway to the top! Fuck you, only taking up one seat on the subway! Fuck you, lack of sleep apnea!”

No thanks.

Right. So, I’m not retired from the land of Self Maintenance, but I’m on sabbatical until I can return with cleaner eyes.

Frankly, I look like hell, and I hate that. I haven’t weighed myself in weeks, and doing so would be a baaaaaaaaaad idea, my friends. I don’t think my physique has changed drastically, but still, I don’t want to know the number. I just try not to think about it too much, or look at myself too often.

The girl in my head doesn’t look like the girl in the mirror, and the girl in the mirror doesn’t look like the girl in photographs, who, 90% of the time, is an objectively unattractive creature. Most of the time, I think I look like an alien, or a guy. Until brain girl, mirror girl, and picture girl can come to some sort of agreement, I think I’m best off avoiding the application of concrete units of measurement to what is obviously a confused sense of reality. When that's settled, I'm hoping things fall into place as far as nutrition is concerned. I think I'm trying to offset one extreme with another, which is, of course, retarded, but I hope that I'll eventually come out somewhere in the middle.

I will live in a land without scales or reflections, I will dazzle myself with my wit and insight, and it will be good. And once I’ve convinced myself that, yes, the importance of inner beauty does apply to me, then I will remount my elliptical trainer, disconnect it from its stationary base, trot off into the sunset, less like Don Quixote and more like Zorro.

What. Ever. My outlook on it isn’t really all that self-congratulatory or optimistic, actually. Strange to say, I’m rather indifferent. This is a first.

If someone were to have told 18-year-old Kelly what present-day Kelly would look like, she’d freak out. “A size TWELVE?” she’d say. “Bitch better be fuckin’ PREGNANT at the time!” If she were to see me, she’d willingly smash her head through a window in order to avoid this horrible size-12 fate. Present-day Kelly wants to crack open a beer and tell the sad little teenager to either chill the fuck out or sit on a hot poker.

It’s had such a progression, the accumulation of all this shit, that I’m not convinced of the validity of calling the end result an “illness.” Even when I’m abstaining from the binge/purge behavior, the rest of the crap is still there. Even when I’m feeling like an overall rockstar, the self-confidence comes with a whisper of impermanence, like I’m just taking a break from actual reality to indulge in a little delusional fantasy.

I maintain that the majority of the problems within the human race are rooted in low self-esteem. Seriously. Take Napoleon, for example. Poor dude had a fucking COMPLEX named after him, so renowned was his need to compensate.

“I know! I’ll take over the world, and then no one will notice that I’m short! I’m a real man!
NAPOLEON THE GREAT! NAPOLEON THE GREAT!
I rule... Right?”

Know who else had a Napoleon complex? Hitler.

Not that I’m arguing that evil actions can be condoned on account of low self-esteem. Sorry. Never mind.

Oh, I don’t know. I just think maybe the world might be a nicer place if everyone had a good deal more confidence. Or, like, enough cocaine to keep everyone feeling invincible.

I HAVE FOUND THE SECRET TO WORLD PEACE, AND IT IS COCAINE!

I'm leaving for New York City tomorrow morning, not to return until Monday. Whee! Seeing old friends! Probably drinking a lot! As such, I probably won't have too much opportunity to update.

Peace out, y'all. Wrrrrrd.

* Don't get me wrong. I ain't a hippie-hater. I've been known to be a little granola-crunchy, myself.

** I really don't know why this wierd character in my psyche is a guy. Not a conscious thing. I think I'm basing him on Larry from "Dharma & Greg."

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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