Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Packrat Syndrome
I was at a store the other day with my mom, and we were buying things. As you do. Along the way I idly began to catalogue the sheer volume of all of the things on the endless shelves and their myriad uses. I find it staggering to think that within the hundreds of various products to be found in any given mass retail store, there are millions of people who will find use of them. I guess it's all about minutia. Next time you're in a tall building or have a really good view, take a look at the nearest street or freeway. Hundreds of thousands of cars crawl like ants endlessly into the horizon. Now visualize that each car holds at least one human being and that the car they are driving is likely only one of hundreds of possessions that person is likely to have. Now multiply that generous "hundreds" of possessions by the number of cars you can see at any given moment. My point is that humanity seems completely tied to the things that we own. We surround ourselves with things and items and trinkets. The question of course is necessity. How much do we really need and why do we really need it?
Obviously many of the things we own come from a place of satisfying a basic need. Our homes, our means of conveyance, our food and the various storage thereof, and our clothing all stem from a reasonably justifiable life requirement. Another category of things that we collect revolve around our entertainment. While we find ways to keep ourselves busy in life, obviously much joy is derived from the things we undertake in our "free time". TV's, sports equipment, cameras, video games, books, papers, pencils, and various other and infinite items of amusement fill our lives from every angle. Lastly, we collect items as a means of memory or remembrance. This a much more broad subset that encompasses aspects of all of the categories of possession, and it is likely the aspect that causes the most problems. Pictures of family and friends, mementos of dear or lost acquaintances, heirlooms, and items attached to specific and resonant moments in our lives could all feasibly fall under the purview of acceptable collection. Even though at the most basic and essential level these items don't serve to prolong or support your living from day to day, we allow these items on a primal level as proof of our existence. No, items collected due to memory are most problematic when tied together with a sense of identity that is directly proportional to our happiness.
Refer to the aforementioned 'entertainment' possessions. Indeed while many of the forms of amusement we dabble are in essence useless in a Darwinian sense, human kind has arguably always shown a need for some kind of activity to balance idle moments. The question becomes what actions are taken when such items outlive their usefulness? For many, things are stored away and slowly fade from our consciousness over time. In some cases these items lose none of their use and upon some random thought-string we are able to recall it and put it back into use in the ebb and flow of our lives. In many more cases than some would like to admit, though, the items we store away tend to pile up and entrench us in our places both physically and figuratively. I call this the Packrat Syndrome, and it has both positive and negative effects on everyone.
As I stated earlier, it all comes down to necessity. In a purely black and white, cut and dry view of the world the only items we would own and keep are the ones that would suite us in the pursuit of living. I suppose this would come down to clothes to protect against the elements, a steady source of food, and some kind of shelter in which to seek rest or retreat. Some of these could be disputed themselves upon further scrutiny. Thus it would seem that 'necessity' is a subjective term. While some would consider dozens upon dozens of old shoeboxes filled with decades old photos stacked in an attic somewhere 'necessary' to happiness, there are just as many who may find this limiting. One of the most common trends that come with the passing of time is our joint accumulation of possession. As we age we collect and inherit and create more and more things by which we identify ourselves to the point that as we age it becomes harder and harder to simply move one's life without great effort. And here is the great debate of necessity. To some, filling one's life with things represents a natural settling down; perhaps even a planting of personal roots of which all things moving forward in life blossom. To others, accumulation is only a limiter to the things we can freely do in our lives.
The lease on my apartment is going to be up in about three months' time. I'm having a considerably hard time deciding whether to renew the lease and stay longer, or pack everything up and move home for a while. As I had these thoughts, I took stock of my living space and all the things I had accumulated over the previous year. Even though I am only one person living alone in a relatively small space, the sheer amount of 'things' I've stashed and piled is kind of impressive. Every drawer has something in it, every closet or nook or cranny... I think the oddest moment of clarity was looking over my bookshelf. I do not read an excessive amount, but I have read a good deal of different books. As I skimmed the myriad titles and genres, I could not help but ask myself what the chances were I would ever reasonably read some of the books I saw again. If I were being honest with myself, some books just as well never may be opened again outside of passing fancy. It is here that I experienced the problematic sense memory identifying attached to many people and many possessions. Regardless of their use, these were my books that I liked enough to read. Some of them were gifts. Some of them were really, really cool at the time. It wasn't long before I knew I couldn't easily part with any of them. The books had become tied to my sense of self. They defined me.
And so it is with people the world over. A long while back I had a friend who spoke to me about having to pair down their life and thusly their possessions in order to allow for ease of movement from place to place. At the time I remember thinking about all the things I called my own and what I would take with me and what I could part with if the opportunity ever arose. It's not an easy task slimming down your precious possessions to the things that really matter, and those things that do last really begin to matter in a huge way. I guess the truth is that we are the things we surround ourselves with and, like it or not, we identify ourselves by them. In the end it all comes down to necessity: the things we can't do without that define us outside of our own internal sense of self. There's a part of me that wishes I was more libertarian on the issue, but I think we all need something outside of ourselves to remind us of who we are. An objective identifier against a vast ocean of subjective definitions though not at all less personal. Life is an amazing journey of things and the things and people we surround ourselves with. Deciding what we can and cannot live without is just one facet of that fantastic voyage, and one that we all should take account.
Obviously many of the things we own come from a place of satisfying a basic need. Our homes, our means of conveyance, our food and the various storage thereof, and our clothing all stem from a reasonably justifiable life requirement. Another category of things that we collect revolve around our entertainment. While we find ways to keep ourselves busy in life, obviously much joy is derived from the things we undertake in our "free time". TV's, sports equipment, cameras, video games, books, papers, pencils, and various other and infinite items of amusement fill our lives from every angle. Lastly, we collect items as a means of memory or remembrance. This a much more broad subset that encompasses aspects of all of the categories of possession, and it is likely the aspect that causes the most problems. Pictures of family and friends, mementos of dear or lost acquaintances, heirlooms, and items attached to specific and resonant moments in our lives could all feasibly fall under the purview of acceptable collection. Even though at the most basic and essential level these items don't serve to prolong or support your living from day to day, we allow these items on a primal level as proof of our existence. No, items collected due to memory are most problematic when tied together with a sense of identity that is directly proportional to our happiness.
Refer to the aforementioned 'entertainment' possessions. Indeed while many of the forms of amusement we dabble are in essence useless in a Darwinian sense, human kind has arguably always shown a need for some kind of activity to balance idle moments. The question becomes what actions are taken when such items outlive their usefulness? For many, things are stored away and slowly fade from our consciousness over time. In some cases these items lose none of their use and upon some random thought-string we are able to recall it and put it back into use in the ebb and flow of our lives. In many more cases than some would like to admit, though, the items we store away tend to pile up and entrench us in our places both physically and figuratively. I call this the Packrat Syndrome, and it has both positive and negative effects on everyone.
As I stated earlier, it all comes down to necessity. In a purely black and white, cut and dry view of the world the only items we would own and keep are the ones that would suite us in the pursuit of living. I suppose this would come down to clothes to protect against the elements, a steady source of food, and some kind of shelter in which to seek rest or retreat. Some of these could be disputed themselves upon further scrutiny. Thus it would seem that 'necessity' is a subjective term. While some would consider dozens upon dozens of old shoeboxes filled with decades old photos stacked in an attic somewhere 'necessary' to happiness, there are just as many who may find this limiting. One of the most common trends that come with the passing of time is our joint accumulation of possession. As we age we collect and inherit and create more and more things by which we identify ourselves to the point that as we age it becomes harder and harder to simply move one's life without great effort. And here is the great debate of necessity. To some, filling one's life with things represents a natural settling down; perhaps even a planting of personal roots of which all things moving forward in life blossom. To others, accumulation is only a limiter to the things we can freely do in our lives.
The lease on my apartment is going to be up in about three months' time. I'm having a considerably hard time deciding whether to renew the lease and stay longer, or pack everything up and move home for a while. As I had these thoughts, I took stock of my living space and all the things I had accumulated over the previous year. Even though I am only one person living alone in a relatively small space, the sheer amount of 'things' I've stashed and piled is kind of impressive. Every drawer has something in it, every closet or nook or cranny... I think the oddest moment of clarity was looking over my bookshelf. I do not read an excessive amount, but I have read a good deal of different books. As I skimmed the myriad titles and genres, I could not help but ask myself what the chances were I would ever reasonably read some of the books I saw again. If I were being honest with myself, some books just as well never may be opened again outside of passing fancy. It is here that I experienced the problematic sense memory identifying attached to many people and many possessions. Regardless of their use, these were my books that I liked enough to read. Some of them were gifts. Some of them were really, really cool at the time. It wasn't long before I knew I couldn't easily part with any of them. The books had become tied to my sense of self. They defined me.
And so it is with people the world over. A long while back I had a friend who spoke to me about having to pair down their life and thusly their possessions in order to allow for ease of movement from place to place. At the time I remember thinking about all the things I called my own and what I would take with me and what I could part with if the opportunity ever arose. It's not an easy task slimming down your precious possessions to the things that really matter, and those things that do last really begin to matter in a huge way. I guess the truth is that we are the things we surround ourselves with and, like it or not, we identify ourselves by them. In the end it all comes down to necessity: the things we can't do without that define us outside of our own internal sense of self. There's a part of me that wishes I was more libertarian on the issue, but I think we all need something outside of ourselves to remind us of who we are. An objective identifier against a vast ocean of subjective definitions though not at all less personal. Life is an amazing journey of things and the things and people we surround ourselves with. Deciding what we can and cannot live without is just one facet of that fantastic voyage, and one that we all should take account.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
'If It Wasn't This... It'd Be Something Else': Lessons from Elizabethtown.
This post serves as both a movie review and a general musing on a number of subjects spurred by extremely late night and sleep-deprived thinkings. Plural. The movie Elizabethtown is a really awesomely fantastic piece of cinema. It stars both Kirsten Dunst and Orlando Bloom, and follows the story of Drew (Bloom) returning to his familial roots on the eve of his father's death and following a monumental professional failure on his part. Along the way he meets the quirky and unendingly optimistic Claire (Dunst) and he discovers the meaning of family, of connections, and most importantly the value of embracing and living life. Elizabethtown is a deeply flawed movie on many fronts, but it's a beautiful collision of imperfection that in and of itself is in fact perfect. Both Dunst and Bloom demonstrate a unique ability to completely miss the subtlety of their characters, yet somehow in those exact failures they create immensely entertaining people who, while in no way resembling real humans, serve as wonderful cyphers for bigger commentaries on the plot and life. I think it's the writing that goes a long way to salvage what I categorize as missteps in the lead performances. For instance, Drew is a decent guy who made a gigantic mistake and has screwy priorities. Orlando Bloom seems to lack the subtlety needed to portray externally a man who has been ruined professionally, has no real friends, and has recently lost a father whom he actually did care very much about. All of this is of course volleyed between his internal process and the shocks of being surrounded by a loving yet insane family (though 'loving' and 'insane' seem redundant when mentioning family). You never get the sense that Drew is experiencing any of this, yet you find yourself willingly filling in the blanks. Bloom succeeds in playing a man out of his comfort zone going with the punches for better or worse. Whether this is a result of Bloom having to ape an American accent (of which he ranks not the best but also not the worst -- see the Playstation 3 game Heavy Rain for the WORST American accents ever) or the fact that he's an Irishman in the American South is irrelevant. He's very likable, it works, and you relate. Kirsten Dunst on the other hand ends up making a character who seems like she should be at least mildly believable into the most cool, cute, and IMAGINARY figure in the movie. I think the main problem here is that Dunst plays Claire with absolutely no vulnerability -- something that in reality a person like Claire would be rife with. Still, you can't help but be drawn to her and find yourself smiling and wishing that a girl like that would come down from space on her unicorn (because she's imaginary) and set straight all of the issues in your life.
The most successful aspect of Elizabethtown is its overall tone. The film is dripping with the warmness of family and friends, the texture of the Southern States, the beautiful calamity of being lost in life and connecting with someone on a deep level, and the joy of being alive. Like almost every aspect of this movie, the tone succeeds despite itself. Elizabethtown begins as a bleak look into a man with nothing to lose's life. From here it feels like it does not know whether it intends to be dark comedy, slice-of-life storytelling, over-the-top pastiche, heartwarming, or revelatory. Despite this schizophrenia, the film again mashes into a wonderful canvas of emotion and confusion that while perhaps not narratively effective hearkens to a truly analogous version of how life can sometimes feel. This is all a fancy way of saying that I don't necessarily know why Elizabethtown resonates so resoundingly with me, but it certainly does. The movie is only helped by one of the most appropriate and effective soundtracks since Garden State. Seriously, go buy (download) it and take a drive somewhere. Beautiful.
The most charming thing Elizabethtown does is remain unendingly positive. It shows that even in the face of something as terrible as the death of a loved one, the ability to come together with the people you love and who love you is more powerful than any tragedy. And this is true both in life and this film. A family is a thing that surrounds you when you're hurt, and even though it can't necessarily heal you it allows you to be safe and deal with it all safe from the pressures of real life. It is paramount to what a family is in the first place that such safety can be found. A family is essentially a group of people who accept you on some level no matter what because you are part of them on a deeply personal (and sometimes biological) level. But just because some of the regular complications of human interaction are foregone does not mean that a family is any more personally together than anyone else. Instead it's a group of people bound together all of whom are trying their best to figure life out under the shared mandate of understanding each other. It's not always pretty and it doesn't always work, but the most rewarding thing to do sometimes is just bask in the chaos of it all and experience life together.
That's the last lesson to be gleaned from Elizabethtown; that being alive is easy, but that sometimes living is the hardest thing to do. This is why despite the fact that Claire seems oddly well-adjusted and above life's rigors, the viewer is drawn to someone who so fully and effortlessly rolls with the ebbs and flows of living. It may be that Claire represents how we'd all like to look at life -- as an experience full of sadness, joy, awkward moments, anger, and frustration; and that that's okay. People today get so caught up in the detours of life that we forget to stop and realize how much awesomeness there is all around us. On top of that, instead of ignoring our own inevitable mortality isn't it a lot more beneficial to embrace the fact that we only have a limited amount of time left to be alive? Though there is a looming sadness at the prospect that we are all going to die, the joy that can be extracted from every moment between now and then is magnified tenfold and we learn how to appreciate all of life's little subtleties all the more clearly. The solution is easy. Do what your heart feels, take a road trip and see the world, be reckless, make mistakes, apologize when you have to, face your fears, and never regret anything. Regrets in all of their hideous glory form parts of the tapestry of your life and while up close they serve not but to make you feel ashamed; like Elizabethtown is a movie, the moment you step back and take it all in as a chaotic but unified whole may just me the moment you remember what it's like to live and to have lived. Besides, if it wasn't this it would be something else.
The most successful aspect of Elizabethtown is its overall tone. The film is dripping with the warmness of family and friends, the texture of the Southern States, the beautiful calamity of being lost in life and connecting with someone on a deep level, and the joy of being alive. Like almost every aspect of this movie, the tone succeeds despite itself. Elizabethtown begins as a bleak look into a man with nothing to lose's life. From here it feels like it does not know whether it intends to be dark comedy, slice-of-life storytelling, over-the-top pastiche, heartwarming, or revelatory. Despite this schizophrenia, the film again mashes into a wonderful canvas of emotion and confusion that while perhaps not narratively effective hearkens to a truly analogous version of how life can sometimes feel. This is all a fancy way of saying that I don't necessarily know why Elizabethtown resonates so resoundingly with me, but it certainly does. The movie is only helped by one of the most appropriate and effective soundtracks since Garden State. Seriously, go buy (download) it and take a drive somewhere. Beautiful.
The most charming thing Elizabethtown does is remain unendingly positive. It shows that even in the face of something as terrible as the death of a loved one, the ability to come together with the people you love and who love you is more powerful than any tragedy. And this is true both in life and this film. A family is a thing that surrounds you when you're hurt, and even though it can't necessarily heal you it allows you to be safe and deal with it all safe from the pressures of real life. It is paramount to what a family is in the first place that such safety can be found. A family is essentially a group of people who accept you on some level no matter what because you are part of them on a deeply personal (and sometimes biological) level. But just because some of the regular complications of human interaction are foregone does not mean that a family is any more personally together than anyone else. Instead it's a group of people bound together all of whom are trying their best to figure life out under the shared mandate of understanding each other. It's not always pretty and it doesn't always work, but the most rewarding thing to do sometimes is just bask in the chaos of it all and experience life together.
That's the last lesson to be gleaned from Elizabethtown; that being alive is easy, but that sometimes living is the hardest thing to do. This is why despite the fact that Claire seems oddly well-adjusted and above life's rigors, the viewer is drawn to someone who so fully and effortlessly rolls with the ebbs and flows of living. It may be that Claire represents how we'd all like to look at life -- as an experience full of sadness, joy, awkward moments, anger, and frustration; and that that's okay. People today get so caught up in the detours of life that we forget to stop and realize how much awesomeness there is all around us. On top of that, instead of ignoring our own inevitable mortality isn't it a lot more beneficial to embrace the fact that we only have a limited amount of time left to be alive? Though there is a looming sadness at the prospect that we are all going to die, the joy that can be extracted from every moment between now and then is magnified tenfold and we learn how to appreciate all of life's little subtleties all the more clearly. The solution is easy. Do what your heart feels, take a road trip and see the world, be reckless, make mistakes, apologize when you have to, face your fears, and never regret anything. Regrets in all of their hideous glory form parts of the tapestry of your life and while up close they serve not but to make you feel ashamed; like Elizabethtown is a movie, the moment you step back and take it all in as a chaotic but unified whole may just me the moment you remember what it's like to live and to have lived. Besides, if it wasn't this it would be something else.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Why Joining A Gym Will Make Me Fat
It's a semi-little known secret that once upon a time not so many years ago I weighed just slightly over 200 pounds. At a height of five foot nine inches tall, this weight would fall under an 'obese' rating on most BMI (Body Mass Index) scales. I should disclaim that this weight was the absolute highest weight I ever weighed myself at, and it is very likely that it was not an entirely accurate measurement. Ideally, I imagine that my actual weight was somewhere in the realm of 210 to 215 pounds. Obviously this is nothing to scoff at, but I am attempting to acknowledge the discrepancy. Of course, this is not the reason that I'm writing today. The truth of the matter is that over the course of about a year and a half I was able to lose roughly eighty pounds, lowering my weight to a range of anywhere from 135 to 145 pounds. This range continues to be my average currently, and the maintenance thereof a conscious effort in my day-to-day routine.
For the first time in almost five years I find that delicate struggle to maintain a healthy weight and healthy practices in jeopardy and tonight while I mercilessly packed away sugary snack after sugary snack, I deduced precisely the culprit -- joining a gym. Let it be clear that for the better part of four years, exercise has been a key facet of my lifestyle. Whenever possible, I have made an effort to run at least two miles a day. Additionally, I throw in a moderate number of push-ups and sit-ups whenever and wherever possible. The important thing to note in this is that while running is important to keeping my weight low, diet and portion sizes have been tantamount not only to the initial loss of weight but the sustained maintenance over time. The reason portion size and the particulars of my diet are so essential lies within the admission that while I now have what many would consider a slender build, at heart food is an overriding passion. Whereas a normal human being will eat that which they find tasty and subsequently stop when they feel full, I find myself eating for the pleasure derived from the flavors and diversity available at any given time. In simpler terms; I'm a fat kid at heart.
As many former "fat kids" can attest, the paranoia that one day they could return to their robust glory is almost enough to stem all the bad habits and tendencies towards excess they may otherwise indulge. I would happily count myself among this demographic, and while I will not claim that my life is any happier than it was when I was overweight, I will admit a powerful urge to not revert to such a state. This past January, I took it upon myself to enroll at the local YMCA in an attempt to continue running and exercising regularly in the usually dormant winter months. Having never been a proper member of a legitimate fitness center since my newfound embracing of a healthier lifestyle, I assumed that having easy access to a fitness establishment would push my exercise routine to untold heights. The truth, as it were, is a much more complicated affair.
I refer now back to the idea that one of the motivating factors in remaining in shape after years of being otherwise is a fear of going back. Regularly going to a gym is a unique experience. The rush and satisfaction of pushing your body's limits and getting stronger and more fit is second to almost none in the list of life's personal accomplishments. The more time and effort put into a gym, though, the more you begin to feel impervious. Thus was the case as far as I am concerned. As the first months of increased physical exercise came to a close, a new feeling of security washed over me. I must be clear that 'security' as I use it here is not meant in a safe and comforting manner equal to the security felt surrounded by loved ones. Instead, this 'security' was one in which the idea that I could ever return to being out of shape seemed an impossibility to me. Truthfully, with the amount of exercise I do on a normal trip to the gym the idea is almost justified. Almost any amount of regular food intake should plausibly be burned away under the rigors of a strenuous workout. The problem of course is twofold. Firstly, it would be unwise to assume that a moderate amount of exercise is excuse enough to stop avoiding sugary snacks or foods containing loads of empty calories that the body cannot properly utilize. Secondly, it would seem I had forgotten the fact that without the focus of concern of the things I ate, I subconcsiously began eating whatever I felt like. Essentially, the gym became my excuse to eat whatever, whenever I wanted.
And so I find myself at a crossroads. I am nowhere near what any rational mind would consider "out of shape", yet I have a weary mind towards the prospect I'm slowly losing the temperance with myself necessary to keep my less desirable habits in check. I do acknowledge the fact that since joining the gym my own fitness level has steadily risen, but it is at the cost of judicious eating habits. And so I find myself wondering if there are others out there with the same predicament. Every day I see people at the gym who are slightly on the heavier side, who seem to push themselves even harder than I do and yet week after week I observe no differences in them. Of course, this is complete conjecture on my part and for all I know the differences are vast yet imperceptible to me due to frequent exposure. Regardless, for the first time in four years I find myself asking if heightened physical activity is the best course of action. Is it possible that memberships to fitness establishments in general carry an air of freedom to ignore otherwise unhealthy habits? Does the knowledge that one belongs to an overwhelmingly identifiable bastion of health cast a blind gaze towards the fact all other outlets of one's life are the opposite? I am personally puzzled by the thought and while I do not yet have the answer, I hope that somehow the mere fact I can rationalize the thought is a sign that I am that much closer to an answer.
Consider for a moment instances in your own life in which you purposefully do something that should represent something overwhelmingly positive in order to justify a much more damaging and negative behavior? Personally I think it's a sign of the human condition and our ability to sabotage ourselves without even knowing it. It goes a long way towards informing personal insight, regardless of how it manifests in your life.
For the first time in almost five years I find that delicate struggle to maintain a healthy weight and healthy practices in jeopardy and tonight while I mercilessly packed away sugary snack after sugary snack, I deduced precisely the culprit -- joining a gym. Let it be clear that for the better part of four years, exercise has been a key facet of my lifestyle. Whenever possible, I have made an effort to run at least two miles a day. Additionally, I throw in a moderate number of push-ups and sit-ups whenever and wherever possible. The important thing to note in this is that while running is important to keeping my weight low, diet and portion sizes have been tantamount not only to the initial loss of weight but the sustained maintenance over time. The reason portion size and the particulars of my diet are so essential lies within the admission that while I now have what many would consider a slender build, at heart food is an overriding passion. Whereas a normal human being will eat that which they find tasty and subsequently stop when they feel full, I find myself eating for the pleasure derived from the flavors and diversity available at any given time. In simpler terms; I'm a fat kid at heart.
As many former "fat kids" can attest, the paranoia that one day they could return to their robust glory is almost enough to stem all the bad habits and tendencies towards excess they may otherwise indulge. I would happily count myself among this demographic, and while I will not claim that my life is any happier than it was when I was overweight, I will admit a powerful urge to not revert to such a state. This past January, I took it upon myself to enroll at the local YMCA in an attempt to continue running and exercising regularly in the usually dormant winter months. Having never been a proper member of a legitimate fitness center since my newfound embracing of a healthier lifestyle, I assumed that having easy access to a fitness establishment would push my exercise routine to untold heights. The truth, as it were, is a much more complicated affair.
I refer now back to the idea that one of the motivating factors in remaining in shape after years of being otherwise is a fear of going back. Regularly going to a gym is a unique experience. The rush and satisfaction of pushing your body's limits and getting stronger and more fit is second to almost none in the list of life's personal accomplishments. The more time and effort put into a gym, though, the more you begin to feel impervious. Thus was the case as far as I am concerned. As the first months of increased physical exercise came to a close, a new feeling of security washed over me. I must be clear that 'security' as I use it here is not meant in a safe and comforting manner equal to the security felt surrounded by loved ones. Instead, this 'security' was one in which the idea that I could ever return to being out of shape seemed an impossibility to me. Truthfully, with the amount of exercise I do on a normal trip to the gym the idea is almost justified. Almost any amount of regular food intake should plausibly be burned away under the rigors of a strenuous workout. The problem of course is twofold. Firstly, it would be unwise to assume that a moderate amount of exercise is excuse enough to stop avoiding sugary snacks or foods containing loads of empty calories that the body cannot properly utilize. Secondly, it would seem I had forgotten the fact that without the focus of concern of the things I ate, I subconcsiously began eating whatever I felt like. Essentially, the gym became my excuse to eat whatever, whenever I wanted.
And so I find myself at a crossroads. I am nowhere near what any rational mind would consider "out of shape", yet I have a weary mind towards the prospect I'm slowly losing the temperance with myself necessary to keep my less desirable habits in check. I do acknowledge the fact that since joining the gym my own fitness level has steadily risen, but it is at the cost of judicious eating habits. And so I find myself wondering if there are others out there with the same predicament. Every day I see people at the gym who are slightly on the heavier side, who seem to push themselves even harder than I do and yet week after week I observe no differences in them. Of course, this is complete conjecture on my part and for all I know the differences are vast yet imperceptible to me due to frequent exposure. Regardless, for the first time in four years I find myself asking if heightened physical activity is the best course of action. Is it possible that memberships to fitness establishments in general carry an air of freedom to ignore otherwise unhealthy habits? Does the knowledge that one belongs to an overwhelmingly identifiable bastion of health cast a blind gaze towards the fact all other outlets of one's life are the opposite? I am personally puzzled by the thought and while I do not yet have the answer, I hope that somehow the mere fact I can rationalize the thought is a sign that I am that much closer to an answer.
Consider for a moment instances in your own life in which you purposefully do something that should represent something overwhelmingly positive in order to justify a much more damaging and negative behavior? Personally I think it's a sign of the human condition and our ability to sabotage ourselves without even knowing it. It goes a long way towards informing personal insight, regardless of how it manifests in your life.
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