Bliss

Once there was a blissful, innocent time B.C. (before cholesterol), when one could live his or her or their short, sedentary life in peace, taking stroke or heart attack in stride as the natural course of things. There was no guilt in Fritos then, and the term “butterfat” had not yet become profanity. Abstinence and exercise were the hobgoblins of fanatics, and “overweight,” in polite society, referred only to luggage taken on transatlantic flights.

In those days I only ran to remove myself from the proximity of muggers and Republicans; I knew nothing of swimmer’s ear, tennis elbow or athlete’s foot. The maladies that worried me were beer-drinker’s bladder, channel changer’s thumb, and smoker’s finger – that little yellow stain that developed on my f***-you finger every day about halfway through the second pack.

Those, as they say, were the days! Those days, as they also say, are gone forever. The “ME” decade came along, the middle class discovered cholesterol and the serenity of a whole complacent nation went up in incense. Overnight, millions of formerly sane adults let jogging supplant cigarettes and sloth. No longer were people bent on buying their way to happiness; suddenly we all seemed intent on denying our way to it.

In the face of all this, the thought occurred to me that just maybe, even my life could be improved, could be better. A wise man would have shrugged off this crazy notion, aware that tradition and Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream should not be discarded lightly. I, on the other hand, decided to check it out. Little did I know how difficult it would be to turn back.

To begin, I visited a quality-of-life guru (some might call him a doctor) recommended by some of my dearest – and, I now suspect, most malicious – friends.

“M-m-m-master,” I stammered, “How can I make my life better?”

“Self-denial, my son. That’s the answer. First you must accept that pleasure is an outmoded concept. Pain is in. Pain and deprivation. If it hurts, do it, if it’s pleasant, eschew it! Down with anything that tastes good, smells good, feels good or passes time without strenuous effort and boredom.”

“And will my three score and ten be better for it?”

“Three score and ten? Peanuts! We’re shooting for the big time: if Methuselah could make 900, you can too. Maybe more. After all, he didn’t have Zumba.”

I went away intent on denying myself every pleasure if it would pave the way to a more perfect me. I visited my running gear consultant to select the vestments of my new vocation: shoes with just the right tread, shorts with just the right sheen, a head band to absorb the sweat my brow would soon know for the first time. Though I could have taken a transatlantic flight for less, including the excess baggage fees for suitcases filled with plus-size shirts and pants, what matter? Now I could run until my chest ached and my heart pounded till it seemed it might burst, never fearing the embarrassment of shin splints.

With the help of my dietary consultant, I discovered a whole new cuisine I’d never imagined: tenderloin of tofu, sprouts sans hollandaise, ginseng on the rocks. I joyfully embraced the extremes of Culinary Conversion Therapy, with it’s disgusting images of dissolutes satiating their degenerate tastes for caster sugar and crème fraiche – and the shocks that followed.

For months I avoided pleasure like the plague, and a miraculous change occurred. I came to look forward with longing to kombucha, and to added decades of abstemious jogging on the cinder track of life.

But as the years passed, a recurring nightmare began to disturb my exhausted sleep. Though, for endless decades, stretching back into the heart of those B.C. dark ages,  I’d denied every pleasure and popped every pill as directed, I was dead at 95, of a disease for which acupuncture had no needles. My friends and relatives, gathered around the coffin weeping, lamented my too-soon death.

But then the guru’s voice rang out: “I have no pity for him. The foolish reprobate drank a soda once after he took the vows. What else could he expect?”

I awoke with a shriek, tears streaming down my emaciated cheeks, begging forgiveness. I racked my troubled mind to think of what lapses reaffirmed my guilt, what more I could have denied as I strove to rival Methuselah’s 969.  But there was no forgiveness. Only the mantra that had come to haunt both my waking and my sleeping hours:

Loose massive weight

Get uber exercise

Or bear the guilt

For your own demise.

Suddenly the prospect of demise seemed almost comforting.