The more I eat, the more I want to eat.
Being portly, this statement surprises no one who has seen me.
But, gracefully, the less I eat, the less I want to eat.
So breakfast is never happening, and during these 40 days I am efforting eating only after sundown. Which, now, is one hour later. [EXPLITIVE DELETED]
But yesterday, after a long morning of service and an afternoon with a delicious family, I caved to the pizza that was pure mana for their Perfect Wee Bairn.
OK: one meal a day, a little denial, really, is the issue: SO: no dinner.
The pizza engorgement was followed a brief snore in front of “Pawn Stars” and thence the evening with a beloved homie in his booze-food Heaven where we huddled on a project. It was going to be drinks (I was completely un-hungry): but the love he expresses with food for my wife and I made abstemiousness untenable. And it was gobblingly good.
I failed, but overeating friendship and love seems palpably different than 32 Triscuits watching said “Pawn Stars”. But the deeper lesson, only possible in my base Lenten discipline of shutting up and pedaling in the AM, is that failing short is not always failure.
My desk is covered, deeply, in falling short. Projects, commitments, writing, building are all swarming upon its surface, and inevitably, some thing gets short changed in my attempt to do everything upon it.
I triggered this overload, no one did it to me, and it’s caused by the Chronic Overreach Syndrome I have been plagued with since my testosterone flood unleashed the revelation that even if I could not cure my parents’ sad marriage (that I knew I bore some dark responsibility for) I could kick ass by doing more. And more.
So I have confused satiety with laziness, overreach with achievement, completely substituted exhaustion for happiness and embraced the truth in me that falling short some while attempting too much is better at succeeded in not enough.
My desk will not be cleared off today, but I will skip lunch, thank you very much.