The topic of aging has worked itself into conversations recently, overtly and subtly, and sure enough, it’s set up camp in my mind. I would say it’s more of a nomad’s camp, though, because it’s not like I’ve been consumed by the subject matter. It’s been more like a soup of fleeting ideas. Then I realized that Tuesday posts are perfect for light, airy concerns like this, so why not collect my thoughts here?
If you were to ask me to trace an arc through the different stages of life, I’d probably proceed like so. Let me know if this trajectory sounds familiar to you. Your teens and your early 20s are fresh, new. During your late 20s, you lock it down and find your compass. Your 30s, 40s, and 50s are for family and career. When you hit your 60s, this festering shithole of an economy permitting, you enter your golden years–retirement–which, if those Cialis and Metamucil commercials are to be believed, are when silver-maned couples cavort through nondescript, sun-swept fields of wheat.
That’s a gross simplification, obviously, and it’s really the grit and the grime, the stuff in between, that got me thinking about all this: the ailments, the wills, the arguments, the small triumphs. I walked out of one discussion today feeling, for the first time in a while, like I was young again, which promptly incited in me a momentary sense of urgency. How do I make the most of my time? What’s my guiding principle? My answer, at this juncture, is to be thankful, but never content–to balance gratitude with the belief that gratitude isn’t enough. Now, as for whether this approach is right or wrong, I suppose I’ll find out when I’m older.
I’m calling it an accidental health regimen, because I never meant for any of it happen. Did my best to turn a blind eye to every tennis court I’d pass, tore down any Boot Camp posters I found, and made sure to stay far, far away from anything remotely resembling an elliptical machine. What I’ve been doing, instead, is clocking in hours of ping-pong, ceasing to eat whenever I feel full, and making my way out to the putting green during the day.
Now, three weeks later and eight pounds lighter, I’m feeling great, with the full weight of momentum behind me. None of it is rocket science, frankly. When you spend most of your day locked into a cubicle, anything that gets you moving is a boon, and that’s why I need ping-pong and the green. As for watching what I eat, well, I haven’t. That’s probably what I need to do next, admittedly, but for now, I’ve gotten substantial mileage out of something Deadpan once told me, which was to renounce my membership in the Clean Plate Club. He was absolutely right.
Eventually, you reach a point where you feel fuller with less food. Perhaps it’s a consequence of a smaller stomach? I’d like to think so. Whatever the science may be, it’s yielded a very tangible sense of progression. Tomorrow will be interesting, though, because it’s Friday. Friday! Or, if my lunch plans have anything to say about the matter, Fryday, the hallowed time of week when we shall determine, definitively, how a bacon cheeseburger can find provenance in a balanced diet.
Last night, in perhaps the most egregious violation of my video gaming philosophy yet, I wowed my boss with a headshot. The context was Gears of War 3. The docks. 40, 50 virtual feet away, a Theron Guard popped its foul skull out of cover. I raised my Longshot, leveled the scope dead center with its head, and squeezed the trigger. Crack! The tell-tale whine of the bullet, followed by a graphic and noisy splatter of alien brain matter. I should’ve asked for a raise right then and there.
How I even got to this point was a harrowing ordeal, in and of itself. Let me retrace my trajectory: I gamed openly in college, then buried it thereafter in various degrees, treating the hobby for what it truly was–a secret shame–to the point where I reinvented my public persona to be largely Xbox-free. Recent events, however, have brought about a Nerd Renaissance, which has culminated in this latest development: a foray into social gaming.
When I first logged onto Xbox Live, I was frankly aghast at the invasion of privacy. Not only would your online Friends know when you were logged in, they could also discern what precisely you were playing. It was unnerving, and I promptly blocked everybody. But then, a part of me wanted to interact. Wanted others to see what I was playing. There’s also a corrective component to this dynamic, too, because social shaming ensures you won’t stay logged in for hours on end. So I flipped the switch. Decided to reveal all. “Welcome to social,” messaged one buddy and, well, here we are. We’ve only got a couple levels left to go. 10:30 PM approaches. Duty calls! And I must answer.