They say that stressed is desserts backwards. This is supposed to provide us with some sort of comic relief, but all I can think of is how easily desserts can make you sick.
You just finished your double XL Steak Cheeser from your local Flabby Shack, when your burgerista approaches and asks if you've left room for a few Apple Pie Blasters, or their world famous Gelato Frites. You only say yes if you're already in a dark place and you're feeling adventurous.
I've been trying a lot of new things that are supposed to be good for me, but it's sort of exhausting. Acroyoga, intermittent celibacy, carpooling. I feel silly for thinking that everything would change for me once I started to be a better human.
I guess my stage of development is sorta like the ride home after choosing to abstain from the incredible dessert menu at Flabby Shack, partially questioning the wisdom of my decision. I'm kept company by my still stuffed stomach and I take solace that I restrained myself from something I knew to be bad.
Hey, that's a start.
Right now I'm the guy who goes to the gym for the first time in ten years, works out really hard, and expects to exude muscularity as he leaves only an hour and a half later. Upon arriving home and after inspecting himself in the mirror, he's disappointed with the lack of progress. Moments later, the sounds of a bottle of beer opening and a cigarette lighting cue the closing credits as the camera pans away from the facade of an old country house, off into the distance.
The Motion Picture Academy lauds the film for its brutal honesty about the human condition. Actor and politco Bill Nye calls it an "unlikely masterpiece." Buzzfeed makes a list, with pictures, about it.
That's what I've always wanted anyway; a biopic about my life so I could have something to watch while I was alone. I'd want Danny Devito to play every character in the movie to give it a surrealist bent.
I'm not sure why I'm complaining anyway. How awesome is it really when you actually have that dessert? If you're being honest with yourself, the regret begins before your fork has even punctured the gelatinous membrane of The Caramel Cruncher Casserole. You turn to your dinner mates to salvage any remaining karma at the table and excrete sentiment about how you ordered it "to share."
At least when you do have the dessert you have something. You have a stomachache, or heartburn, or a few extra pounds that show up a week or so later. You have some sort of lesson you can digest and learn from, so that next time when the burgerista asks you if you'd like to see the dessert menu, you know what to say.
Until you say it and you start questioning if the restrictions you're placing on yourself are really worth it. Doubt creeps into your mind and speaks in a voice that sounds just like Golem from Peter Jackerson's never ending version of the kids book The Lord of the Rings. A voice so annoying that you'll do anything to make it stop.
Until you merember
how it feels on the other side of a Flabby Shack bender....
I guess what I'm driving at is that even when we know what's best for us, it doesn't make it easy. And every time you allow space for it, doubt creeps in. And if you don't charge ahead unwavering, again you start wondering "is it really worth it?"