Life and Death

“Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.”— Lao Tsu

Life and Death

Some days, my life is so hectic that I run around in circles, getting to the proverbial nowhere. Stress ... strange how it affects us. Some people handle stress by shutting off the world, some drink a daily regimen of alcohol, some take little white pills, and others, like me, make a beeline straight to the refrigerator.

Food, especially wonderfully sweet food, is a common narcotic of choice.

Want to know why you're overweight? Simple. Instead of feeding your body, which really isn't too demanding, you're probably feeding your head — feeding your problems and worries with food that your body neither needs or wants. If we fed only the demands of our bodies, each of us would probably be approximately at an optimum weight. Unfortunately, many of us listen to our heads, and so we eat to dull the pain, anger, depression, or whatever it is that is gnawing at our sense of well-being.

That, I'm afraid, has been the story of my life.

Alas, under the orders of a member of the College of Physicians and Surgeons, my days of butter tarts and Little Debbie snacks are behind me now.

I have given up my comfort foods for green things that grow like weeds in the fields of Chile or California. A nose in my fridge finds only stringy tooth-jamming-like-dental-floss celery, an assorted collection of yellow-going-on-orange peppers, and a Tupperware ensemble of cauliflower florets. The only Bud in there would be the buds of broccoli in a resealable plastic baggie that I think I have used and reused since 1967. It still has a hempish smell inside of it, but I consider that aroma a form of seasoning.

Good health. The journey to good health is no easy road, when what we really want to do is fall into the couch in front of a Law and Order marathon with maybe a vanilla milkshake, a deluxe pizza, and a bag of those chewy chocolate chip cookies.

We are encouraged to lose weight, exercise, and develop a strong "core," whatever that is — presumably something quite different from anything "hardcore." So we abuse our bodies by denying it the sugary compotes that have been the key to dulling our problems, and we sign up for yoga, aerobics class, join a gym, or just go for endless walks around the neighbourhood. The Law and Order marathon goes on, even in our absence, and we suffer from bugged-out symptoms of flat-screen withdrawal, even before we know that Robert Goren is likely as nutty as the criminals he pursues.

Some days, I wonder what's the point? Some days, I think that, sure, you might squeeze a few more years out of life, but what is life like beyond 80 or 90 years anyway? Wouldn't you rather be squeezing some of that not-so-real cheeze out of a plastic tube and onto your Ritz crackers while lying in bed-like-a-beach?

My doctor is a fun guy. He's a Kiwi-transplant to Canada, and about my age. He likes a good laugh, but he tends to be a little overly dramatic at times. For him, blood tests are like the twelve sacraments, and he waves me into his office like it were a confessional in purgatory. This count is too high, and this count is through the roof. "What have you been doing with your life?" he wonders with an incredulous look on his face.

My response is always the same. "I've been living," I counter.

"But maybe not for very much longer if you keep living the way you are," he cautions.

"What's the worst that can happen?" I muse.

"You could die prematurely," he snaps.

"Story of my life, doc," I offer back, "premature baby, premature baldness, premature atrial contractions, premature ejaculations, so what's new and different about a premature death?"

I know, I know. We are expected to fight against the darkness and all that. Still, you do have to live. I'd rather have quality over quantity. Give me the dance and the romance, not the dread of waking up dead.

You see, no one ever trained me for the senior citizens complex. I don't play bridge, barely understand BINGO, would rather skateboard than play shuffleboard, fumble like an idiot with those days-of-the-week plastic pill sorters, and worst of all, I see wheel chairs as power carts to race up and down shiny hallways. All in all, I'd rather be in Bert's Bar & Grill in Bilouxi, and having a cheeseburger and fries, than sitting in a circle with the blue-haired crew singing Kumbaya.

Life? Funny thing. Death? Not so funny in most people's books. Yet, just as every journey begins with a single step, so too does every journey end with a final thud. We come, and we go. It is what it is.

Sure I'd love to walk along the beaches of Florida with a six-pack abdominal wall this summer. I'm much more likely, however, to be toting a six-pack of doughnuts.