Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Between my poor choice of foods and general lack of sleep, I’ve been getting noticeably dumber, and it’s a small wonder I’ve been able to finish this very sentence. Typing has become particularly cumbersome, transforming from something quick and effortless into a speed bump on loop. Three words deep into this post, case in point, I spelled “poor” with two p’s. Twice, if you can believe it. There is a dull film encasing my head, almost as if someone took great pains to wrap an afghan around my brain.

And that someone would be me. Doctors, I’ve come to realize, may be onto something with the whole eight hours of rest fad. I’ve been averaging fewer than six, which is surely taking its toll, a fact that may be apparent to people other than myself. Take Monday, for instance, when I found myself nodding forward in a daze, in broad daylight at my desk, and there was at least one instance where I looked bewilderedly at my spreadsheet, wondering how in fresh hell I ended up in, like, cell AL5485.

Lack of sleep may also impair judgment, and accordingly I’ve lavished upon myself a shitload–that’s five hectograms, in case you’re European–of fries and cookies in the past few days. I also purchased a case of Fresca on a whim last week, effectively ensuring a minimum daily intake of two cans and untold havoc waged upon my synapses. Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I don’t believe human physiology really cries out for acesulfame potassium.

But the most insidious quantity I’ve been consuming is routine. That’s right. Routine. I appreciate it, find comfort in its welcoming contours, but there’s a point, which I’ve clearly crossed, where the contours become grooves, then gullies, then inescapable pits. Work, television, work, television, work, television, television, work. I could be watching a thoughtful miniseries on HBO and tackling a challenging problem in the office, and yet the routine would still be there. It’d be like using the elliptical machine at the gym, day in and day out, to blunted effect. There would be nothing inherently wrong about it–indeed, it may even be laudable–but apparently you’re supposed to mix up your workout. Keep your body on edge and prevent it from settling into a pattern. Or so I’ve heard, because let’s be honest now: I’m speaking on exercise in a purely theoretical capacity here.

There are three things I’m injecting into my day-to-day as a stopgap for this stupification. The first is this blog here, ironically, because even though it’s routinely updated, it’s been increasingly hard to do so. Writing is critical, though, because it helps with the production and arrangement of thoughts. A better diet would certainly help with clarifying the old brainpan as well, and to this end I’m rolling out the “no refined sugars” edict in varying degrees. And finally, chess because it demands that ideas be chained together, meaningfully, for long-term benefit. So! Writing for structure. Refined sugar embargo for clarity. Chess for cunning. I suppose now would be a good time to sleep as well. That’s really four things, you know, not that I should be expected to count correctly. Oh, elementary numbers, how you elude me so! But not for long.