I was going to happily seize upon the opportunity to discuss my unusually exciting Spring Break, but this feeble idea has been usurped by a monthly event that happened to land on this day. Today I am fasting.
This all started two months ago, when I, furious at a bout of nasty blood glucose levels (see here), obstinately decided to halt all carbohydrate consumption for a day, in a misguided attempt to stabilize my fluctuating blood sugar [Misguided, I say, for this fails for reasons I shan't elaborate on here]. For the heck of it, and in part inspired by Wole Soyinka's brief essay, I decided to extend this regimen to a fast, and attempted to abstain from food for a 24 hour chunk of my life. This avoidance did not extend to water or tea, though, as the prospect of undergoing biking, fitness, and general daily happenings without a drop seemed too intense. Perhaps on a particularly insipid weekend, though. After all, a friend of mine's religion compelled him to abstain from food and water for a month, and he did so, despite this occurrence intersecting his cross-country season (ouch).
Despite the consolation of unlimited tea and water, the first fast was exceedingly hard for myself, though nothing, I'm sure, compared to what my friend underwent, nor what all the starved of the world suffer. Still, the experience was certainly interesting. The feeling of tea and water hitting an empty stomach is odd. Those weird stomach noises , its rumbles and gurgles. The pressure behind my eyes and temples that I envision as the entombed brain's plea for nutrients. A feeling of weakness, lethargy. Occasional faintness. Hunger. Nothing too exciting, to be sure, but crucially, still an overall state that is different .
For my whole life, I've always had good, wholesome, three-times-a-day-forever-and-ever meals. The extent to which I'd felt any semblance of hunger would have been the time I forgot my lunch in lower school. Even now, what I'm attempting to ignore via typing about could hardly be branded as "hunger". But I have a partially clearer notion of what it means to be hungry. I acknowledge, can't deny, the increasing fatigue of my mind and body (though mostly the mind, I'm pleased to note. And why not, with all the ample reserves, stored up over almost two decades of consistent eating?). Perhaps I could argue that this gives me a better perspective on the famished, the starving. But it's true, fasting like this doesn't actively accomplish anything externally. I'm helping nobody except myself. Perhaps, then, this fasting is an indulgence? It's aim, it appears, would be to only change my internal state. For example, I appreciate food a whole lot more now. Augustine says "Even the natural pleasures of human life are obtained through distress, not only through the unexpected calamities that befall against our will but also through deliberate and personal discomfort. There is no pleasure in eating and drinking unless the discomfort of hunger and thirst have preceded them". I agree, Augustine, I agree. After the first fast, the neglected, crusty piece of pizza nestled in the back of the fridge tasted incomparable to the piping hot delivery two days before.
Added to this increased appreciation for what some may take for granted (my body certainly does, it expects to be fed now, but not yet, not yet!) is the somewhat illusory feeling of control. Part of the pleasure of a successful fasting is undeniably the victory over the body. However, this sentiment of control is all too superficial and potentially disastrous; fasting, when done badly or with the wrong mentality, is one step away from an eating disorder. My hypochondriac mother was quick to point this out, which was not a surprise, given her incessant worryings. What was a bit surprising was a piece of her history that I had not known prior to my decision to fast: she had, around the same time (between the high-school to college transition) decided to fast, and for the same, vague reasons: to see what it feels like, to remind oneself what others constantly face, etc.
Weird. My decision, time, and rationalization to fast was almost identical to what my mother did so many years ago. Genetics strikes again, extending its grasp past the phenotype and into complex behavior. Or something like that. You'll have to excuse me, the tired typist doing a poor job ignoring the borborygmus while sipping my tea with dignity. I flail and fatigue, and I honestly can't wait until I can eat again tomorrow. For now, though, what an odd sensation, this stomach, this mind. Would I recommend that you, sparse readers, try it? Perhaps. Keep in mind, though, that this is by no means an extreme act; instead, it is merely a once-a-month event for an opportune time, such as when a weights-day and bad weather (read: no biking) coincide. Reportedly bad weather, I should amend, while I frown at the weatherman. But no matter about him. Well. I suppose if you take your food, your life, your daily schedule for granted, then yes, try a fast. If you are bored, complacent, angsty, whiny, yes. Try it one day, then perhaps afterwords your mundane schedule will feel decidedly more pleasant. Just some food for thought.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The King's Speech
I’m not a frequent moviegoer, which stems from my family’s lack of interest in most forms of electronic entertainment. Thus, when my mother and father disappeared from the house for a few hours and returned, praising the movie “The King’s Speech,” I was both surprised and intrigued.
My initial qualms over the rating of the movie (as I do have a, ah, mildly delicate constitution) were quenched by my mother, who scorned the R rating as “laughable” and “unwarranted”. This from one whose nature is more prone than mine to feel the unwanted emotions (fear, disgust, shock etc) caused by the manipulating images on the screen.
A few days later, I found myself at the theater with a good-natured group of comrades. Oddly enough, I left the movie feeling unquestionably pleased. Wait. I walk out of the theater… from a movie in which no violence, intrigue, or hair-brained plots have been glorified and unforgivably expounded upon. None of that commonplace material one grows tired of merely by hearsay (as I’ve said, I don’t watch enough to profess being a connoisseur in this area.) No, this movie’s primary constituents were: believable actors, good dialogue, a simple story entwined with raw emotion, and even a bit of history. All in all, I greatly enjoyed it.
Now. Fear not for any major spoilers, though if you have a penchant for divining the outcome of events via minute tidbits of information, you might wish to halt your reading here.
One interesting scene found the protagonist, King Charles VI, attempting to read a passage from Shakespeare to his speech therapist, Lionel. The King utterly failed when he could hear his own voice, but while listening to blaring classical music, he was able to read fluidly from the passage. I have no idea if this has any scientific backing, as well as no clue as to why the King simply did not listen to music at every instance in which he was required to give a speech. But, the idea of something inside one balking at one's own voice, or at least, being affected by one’s own voice, is a relatable theme. I am greatly perturbed when I hear recordings of my voice on the family's answering machine. This is often the case for most people I’ve met (omitting the chorally gifted, who have the arduous task of hearing recordings of themselves singing).
More unusually, though, is my reaction whenever I, by chance, encounter a mirror. I move from initial, brief confusion to amusement and worry (amusement at my countenance, worry if my visage is unusually pale or emaciated). Is this lack of self-consciousness a bad thing? I can't say. This temperament has its pros and cons: on the one hand, I don’t have the psychological make-up to worry over my external portrayal; on the other hand, I may talk too loudly, or offend the eyes of others with my appearance.
Annoyingly, it is usually most prudent to work towards the happy-medium between the two poles. Optimistically, I feel that it is better to move from my current extreme to the other, as overtly self-conscious people tend to annoy more than their opposite.
My initial qualms over the rating of the movie (as I do have a, ah, mildly delicate constitution) were quenched by my mother, who scorned the R rating as “laughable” and “unwarranted”. This from one whose nature is more prone than mine to feel the unwanted emotions (fear, disgust, shock etc) caused by the manipulating images on the screen.
A few days later, I found myself at the theater with a good-natured group of comrades. Oddly enough, I left the movie feeling unquestionably pleased. Wait. I walk out of the theater… from a movie in which no violence, intrigue, or hair-brained plots have been glorified and unforgivably expounded upon. None of that commonplace material one grows tired of merely by hearsay (as I’ve said, I don’t watch enough to profess being a connoisseur in this area.) No, this movie’s primary constituents were: believable actors, good dialogue, a simple story entwined with raw emotion, and even a bit of history. All in all, I greatly enjoyed it.
Now. Fear not for any major spoilers, though if you have a penchant for divining the outcome of events via minute tidbits of information, you might wish to halt your reading here.
One interesting scene found the protagonist, King Charles VI, attempting to read a passage from Shakespeare to his speech therapist, Lionel. The King utterly failed when he could hear his own voice, but while listening to blaring classical music, he was able to read fluidly from the passage. I have no idea if this has any scientific backing, as well as no clue as to why the King simply did not listen to music at every instance in which he was required to give a speech. But, the idea of something inside one balking at one's own voice, or at least, being affected by one’s own voice, is a relatable theme. I am greatly perturbed when I hear recordings of my voice on the family's answering machine. This is often the case for most people I’ve met (omitting the chorally gifted, who have the arduous task of hearing recordings of themselves singing).
More unusually, though, is my reaction whenever I, by chance, encounter a mirror. I move from initial, brief confusion to amusement and worry (amusement at my countenance, worry if my visage is unusually pale or emaciated). Is this lack of self-consciousness a bad thing? I can't say. This temperament has its pros and cons: on the one hand, I don’t have the psychological make-up to worry over my external portrayal; on the other hand, I may talk too loudly, or offend the eyes of others with my appearance.
Annoyingly, it is usually most prudent to work towards the happy-medium between the two poles. Optimistically, I feel that it is better to move from my current extreme to the other, as overtly self-conscious people tend to annoy more than their opposite.
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