Uneasy Rhetoric

[Wherein uneasyrhetoric.net takes a detour]

July 4th and tomorrow, the 20th, mark milestones of sorts–on the 4th it was 200 days until I will turn 40 and tomorrow makes it exactly six months.  When I realized this, it sent me into a funk. Not a deep, depressing funk, but a thoughful, serious one.  Such an age is just a marker along the way, and there certainly have been others. Tomorrow’s milestone, however, seems more real.  Since I started thinking about it, I’ve started obsessing about what I need to change.

Forty marks the more or less official beginning of middle age (even though, statistically, I passed the midway point a couple years ago) and a time when I’m supposed to become more aware of the aches and pains in my body. The risk of various failures goes up and up.

I’m not ready for my body to fail.  Those who know me know I’ve struggled with my weight and several annoying and related health issues pretty much since I had my tonsils out at age seven.  At various times, I’ve been able to drum up enough willpower and enough focus to change my diet, exercise more, etc. I’ve manage to drop as much as 20 pounds  – 6th grade, college, 30, 35.  The problem is, starting at about 25, my net weight change has always been positive, not negative.

But at this moment, I am in a position to focus on my health. In many respects, I see it as the one roadblock to finding fulfillment. My family life is decent. My job doesn’t suck. I make enough money to pay the rent, buy good food, and pay for this website. I haven’t attained my ultimate educational goal, but I’d written that one off years ago. As an agnostic, I’ve had no crises of faith or faithlessness. I don’t own a home, but that just means I’m not holding one for the bank.  Finally, I’ve concluded that the health focus takes precedence over just about everything else – my continuing educational goals, my writing, my desire to read more – the only thing it doesn’t trump is my family. It even trumps work insofar if I have a choice between working beyond what is necessary to succeed or doing something to improve my health, right now, health should be the winner.

In other words, when I’m browsing on Facebook, trying to think up inane Twitter posts, or getting angrier and angrier about the fact that Pandora can’t seem to stop playing the same dozen or so songs, I don’t worry about the writing I could be doing or the books I could be reading.  I worry about the sleep I’m not getting, the pushups I’m not doing, or the walk I’m not taking.

So, how do I address this issue?  I’ve heard all the advice before and I’ve fallen for some of the crazy internet traps.  Work your way up to a hundred pushups!  Great, so I’ll have big guns *and* a big beer gut.  Cut one bad habit at a time. Cool. I’ll stop eating candy bars. Then I’ll give up caffeine but start eating candy bars again. Oops.  Set smaller goals. That one’s funny. Not only can I not make my long-term goal, now I’ll have short term ones I can’t reach either.  Eat more protein. Eat olive oil. Use excel or www.anothrfckingtrackr.com to track how many miles you walk, your average heart rate, your strides per minute, how many calories you consume, how much time you spend watching television, how many of your Facebook friends hate you, how quickly your Twitter contacts update, how many calories you will burn taking various forms of transportation to the local farmers market, and how many times you can use the work “fuck” in a sentence without giving your mother a heart attack.

So, how do I address this issue?  I can explore what it was that helped me to succeed in the past and what it was that made me stop whatever was working. Of course, the last time I stopped was because my son was about to be born. But I refuse to blame my laziness on him. If anything, he’s the reason to get off my ass.

What worked before was simply getting fed up. I’d had it with feeling bad. As a bonus, I was depressed (clinically, it would later turn out) and exercise helped, a lot.   And there were positive motivators along the way.  Friends would suddenly remark that I looked healthier, happier, and too sexy for my shirt.  I distinctly remember the moment I realized that I was working much harder to get my heart rate up and keep it in the “zone.”  I remember the spring in my step as I left the gym.

So here I am, 39 and a half, and fed up. Fed up enough to post this shit on my blog. Fed up enough not to care about cussing on my blog. Fed up and cranky. Very cranky. Maybe I don’t get the sports car. Maybe this is my midlife crisis. Or maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and nothing will have changed, except another day gone.

The next six months are going to be an interesting ride.