By Paul Lambis
It is that time of the morning again. The sun forces its way into my bedroom, as my eyes sluggishly greet the light. Outside, the village rooster begins to screech. A dog barks. Another pooch responds to its vociferous cries. In the distance, I can hear the splashing sound of water as my overjoyed neighbour tends to her plants, humming those sickly, goody-goody songs as if she were Julie Andrews singing on that mountain high in the Swiss Alps.
The disquieting sound of the passage wall clock selfishly ticks along, without any remorse for those who have greeted the new day with an infuriating headache. Suddenly, a roaring and ear-piercing noise emanates from the side street as the refuse truck enters the commune.
I am in a trance, trapped in a vacuum of invisible space as the conscious world overpowers my mind. I scuffle to recall my dream, searching for any hidden messages that could predict the day’s events. I have conditioned myself to believe that dreams have prophetic qualities that can foretell the future.
My aching body suggests an evening of teleportation – floating around the astral plane – dancing with ethereal beings. If only it were that mystical… The blame lies entirely with the intake of another high-calorie, quarantine-inspired meal – its remnants now caught up in a jumble of rubbish on their way to the local dumping ground.
The smartphone on my nightstand has recharged itself overnight. A flashing green light sends a subliminal message that it is time for this electronic wonder to disconnect from the main power source. Countless notifications beam brightly on its screen – a reminder that the world continued its race toward Armageddon while I slumbered.
An hour has passed; I am lost in a web of social network obsession. My finger obliviously caresses the touchscreen as it perseveres through an endless stream of Facebook posts: an exhibition of celebratory images, unflattering selfies, hideous portraits of men fashioning Osama Bin Laden-style beards; motivational quotes, gossip columns, fashion escapades, personality assessment tests, pyramid scheme vacations, meaningless images of feet… What is the deal with photographing one’s own feet?
After answering a work email, and viewing a YouTube video of some shoe sales clerk who has wowed the Britain’s Got Talent judges with his operatic rendition of Nessun Dorma, I attempt to find common ground with the tenor, and even reassure myself that opportunity will soon be knocking at my door.
It is time to embark on my morning ritual, and head downtown to work. Yet again, my spiritual cherubs are fighting a losing battle against the silent forces of bitterness. A fiendish whisper echoes through my ears, hissing messages of envy as my eye focuses on the flawless physical attributes of a male model in designer briefs, splashed across the highway billboards. As an experienced marketing professional, I am aware of the unreal standards and body images portrayed in advertisements – each image retouched before going to print. Yet, this superficial world of pouting faces and six-pack, Photoshop-assisted bodies, has had me – from adolescence through adulthood – acting on a belief that ‘thin’ is the social norm.
The psychological trauma of being an overweight child can stay with one for life. That feeling of being prejudged by others and shamed by one’s own appearance never goes away – especially when it takes root at an age when one is not equipped to deal with it. My parents often reassured me that “fruits come in all shapes and colours.” I, on the other hand, believed that I stood out like a prune in a box full of raisins.
The thought of dieting again, evokes those awful feelings of deprivation and restriction. It is the same old, same old. A potential dieter always embraces a new, well-balanced food plan with the hope that abstinence and perseverance will lead to an advertising contract and a modelling opportunity. The first stage of the plan sees the potential weightwatcher performing a detox of the kitchen; harmful foods tossed in the bin – some consumed as part of the elimination process.
A five-minute-session of profane lingo ensues as I button and zip my must-have-shrunk-in-the-wash pair of jeans; the overflowing, tidal wave of belly fat, now bursting at the seams, is strategically concealed by an oversized T-shirt. Armed against the evil forces of fast food drive-thrus and gargantuan billboards that line the streets, screaming junk food specials, I down my spouse’s ginger and spinach green smoothie, grab my lean, healthy snack, fasten my seat belt and head off to work.
The drive downtown is delightful. I observe the natural beauty of the countryside; the easy-going sounds emanating from the radio inspire a delightful flashback of childhood memories. Everyone appears to be smiling. The congested traffic suggests a possible roadblock ahead; however, my mood remains elated. Nothing can alter my disposition.
“I’ve been stuck in this useless, nose-to-tail traffic jam for over an hour!” I am now, like many, trapped in a glass and metal mobile canister of humanity. The radio is blaring the most obnoxious, violent, misogynistic garbage I have ever heard in my life. I have consumed all the health food in sight. I almost regurgitated the morning’s smoothie, when a senseless, male-model-in-designer-briefs-lookalike tailgater – in his fancy, upscale car – overtook me from behind and gave me the middle finger. I smacked both hands onto the horn until my stress level lowered.
I switch radio stations, and the presenter is rambling on about the foreseeable rags-to-riches story of the shoe sales clerk from Britain’s Got Talent. A commercial enters the scene, poisoning the airwaves with its toxic specials on chicken nuggets and beef burgers. In front of me, a senseless driver fails to stay centred in his lane as he attempts to multi-task smoking and chatting on a mobile while en route.
Despite my numerous attempts to hit the “Reset” button, the work blues impeded my levels of productivity, hindered my performance and affected my co-workers. I spent the first part of my morning consuming a tasteless health snack. I had to save my laptop from potential liquid damage after my degenerate-of-a-colleague attempted to throw a large box file onto my desk from a distance. I even found myself trapped in a cringe-worthy situation after mistaking an overweight client for being pregnant.
The drive home that evening did not mirror the morning’s picture-postcard-prettiness. Greeted by a wave of comfort and warmth by my nearest and dearest, I consumed another one of my wife’s mouth-watering meals. Comfort food. The sun had officially disappeared over the horizon, marking the end of another day. I reached for my weight journal – blanketed in dust – abandoned behind a pile of self-help books on my nightstand. I wrote a familiar, hopeful and optimistic goal – an ambitious, yet realistic resolution. It begins with a bold declaration: “I’ll start my diet on Monday.”
