The Inbetweeners

As a kid, I loved Sundays. Sundays were a day of special food; specifically junk food. 6 out of 7 days of the week, if we (my brother and I) asked for junk food, my mum responded " rehe mbeca ?" or "do you have the money?"  Except for Sundays. On Sundays, she'd respond "I'll think about it."  Now this isn't a yes. It's barely even a maybe. What it is, is not no . And because she didn't say no, Sunday became the day we'd fixate on junk food. On this one day, we'd be able to make our food dreams come true. From pizzas and burgers in my younger years to a creamy alfredo or shawarma as I grew older.  I miss being that excited about food, or a meal. I miss truly revelling in the taste of delicious food. I miss not worrying about where that food "went" or not chiding myself for wanting this food in the first place. I miss, just, being able to enjoy a meal and not worrying about the consequences. But the more I think about it...

Before we get into the topic of the day, I can't believe I'm going to make it. It was touch and go there for a while. But holy shit, I can't believe I made it. 

There's something incredibly ironic about my quest to embrace more parts of myself. As I become more comfortable with my mind, accepting the many ways I have limited my potential and forgiving myself for this gross lack of faith, I have not extended this same level of acceptance to my body.  I will not, and so far have not, allowed my body to change – as bodies are wont to do. My actions affirm that I'd rather be hungry, and anxious but thin, than healthy and happy but slightly bigger. My actions affirm my deeply ingrained fatphobia and hatred of fatness more than my words could ever condemn them. They show me that while I am closer to understanding myself, I am no closer to loving who I am today than I was several years ago. They expose my fears and my willingness to succumb to the suffocating familiarity of those fears, rather than risk the possibility of more rejection.   What's funny is that this – the level of control I exercise over my body – is new. Upon reflection...

Although I am not a wrestling fan, there is one element of wrestling I appreciate. Kayfabe.   Kayfabe "is the accepted substitution of reality and willing suspension of disbelief that allows fans to buy into often fictionalized storylines, larger-than-life personalities and match results." Kayfabe turned wrestling from a sport, into entertainment and, as a result, maintaining the illusion is integral to the survival and operation of modern wrestling. But sustaining the artifice does not mean obscuring its' existence. Nor should we confuse a dogged commitment to the stories told (kayfabe) with a stringent belief in those stories. Instead, kayfabe is the act of storytelling; an act of co-creation led by wrestling professionals and powered by the wrestling fans who spread, respond to and, ultimately, sustain these stories. It is the storytelling that fans and professionals are dedicated to . The narratives of good vs evil and David v Goliath. Tales of succession and famil...

I spent an hour doing nothing yesterday, and it was weird. Except, I wasn't really doing "nothing." I suppose it is a bit unfair of me to characterise my activities as "nothing" simply because they were not economically or personally productive. But that's what it felt like. The time I, unintentionally, took for myself yesterday, I spent observing the world around me. I basked in the sun. I played with dogs. I looked for shapes in the cloud. I mean, at one point, I was, literally, smelling the roses. And this is weird . It's been years since I took the time to simply be in my environment. And even longer since I allowed myself to respond to and appreciate that environment.  This permission came because I know I have the time. But also because I've been conscious about rethinking my patterns and my life. I'm trying to be more deliberate about identifying and communicating my needs. As well as more intentional about my leisure time. The result is...

As I reflected on my yesterday, I became aware of my work habits. Now, each of my tasks yesterday demanded similar amounts of intellectual energy and attention. Therefore, I could not decide what to prioritise based on a sliding scale of easy to hard. Instead, I began with the tasks I liked. I figured, completing these items would whet my appetite enough to continue with my tasks.  It wasn't until the end of the day that I realised that, while the tasks I liked and the tasks I didn't were all basically the same things, I chose to begin the day with the work that didn't pay me. I chose  to start the day with work for which there is no deadline because it is my work. I chose to start the day by working for me.  I've NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE! First, for a person as money anxious as I am, I should have done the work that paid first. I should have given it my attention yesterday. I should feel guilty, and yet, I don't . I feel oddly at peace with the choices I made. Perhap...

Over the weekend, I attend a high school graduation. As I watched my, now, former students walk across the stage and receive their certificates, I was immediately shot back to my turn on that stage. Yet I could not empathise with the sense of satisfaction on their faces. Each time I graduated, I felt nothing . I was not satisfied. I was not overwhelmed with emotions or a sense of completion. Nor was I numb to the significance of the day nor the magnitude of this milestone. Still, the sense of accomplishment that ought  to follow these events was absent. And this absence was blinding on a day dedicated to celebrating my achievements.  Nearly 10 years on, when I look at my high school graduation, this is all I remember. That feeling of anticipation; waiting for the excitement and satisfaction to kick on. Only for it to never emerge. I went to bed the same person I was when I woke up. Not changed by my new status as an alumnus. Nor was I freed from the shackles of an institution ...