The Disciplinary Boomerang

Life is a very odd way of learning lessons. Still, given that there's no concrete evidence that death can teach us anything - leastways not our own - I suppose we're stuck with the lessons we can pick from the flotsam of our days on this planet, even when those lessons are not terribly flattering.

I am done with things not fitting - I find it boring, and I find myself not the person I want to be, or indeed the person I feel I am. It's borderline insane of course that weight - that body fat, essentially - should have this kind of impact on one's self-image, but there it is; call me a fallible old sentimentalist if you will. As soon as Wendy's wedding is done this week,though, I want to start getting back into the clothes I bought (or - and here's another of those stabs of self-knowledge - in some cases were bought for me) when I was a few stones lighter and thinner and generally more Disappeared than I am right now. I am done with this bullshit.

Another irritating home truth is that this may well become an easier thing to achieve once this week is done. Why?
Because I go back to work then, essentially.
But surely, having November off was supposed to free me up to do more exercise?
Yes, but clearly, I need an aide de discipline. Clearly, left to my own devices, I can find innumerable better things to do. Clearly, in fact, I need a routine into which to fit my exercise, almost to get away with exercise, as though it is something almost of which to be ashamed. And no, in case you're wondering, I don't really like what this says about my psychology. But if there is one thing demanded of us by the necessity to learn our life lessons, it is that not liking a thing does not make it untrue. So: there is a kind of angry steel feeling in the back of my throat that accepts these things about myself, and will begin to put them to work for me, in the pursuit of further Disappearance. Soon, I will be back at work, with far, far too much to do. Somehow, the perversity of my psychology relishes this fact, and the challenge of fitting exercise into the schedule as well, and somehow making it work for me. Work equals routine. Routine equals discipline. Discipline - perversely, as I seem to keep saying - equals a need to kick against it and still make my desires work for me, ergo it equals a greater determination to fit the exercise I need to do into my days.

All of which adds up to fitting into shirts that fit a 15 stone man and not a 17 and a half stone man, and buttoning up my Disappearing Coat for the winter.

So let's get started, shall we?