I sometimes wonder if my body hates me. It’s weird to say that my guts hate my guts, but my guts hate my guts. It’s true. I’ve noticed recently that I’ve recently been entered into some sort of Cold War, and the opposition is me. My body has, as of late, been using cold War Tactics to degrade me both mentally and physically.
A little while back I was at the theater with a friend, we were watching The Last Jedi, and at about the point that Princess Leia gets ejected out into the vacuum of space I made a very shocking discovery; that the back of my teeth felt extremely dry. Or, at least, it felt that way. I was well hydrated that day, my mouth was producing the correct amount of saliva, I haven’t been taking any medications of any sort to my knowledge (who knows what happens after I go to bed). So my initial reaction is to just lick the back of my teeth and fix the problem, but for whatever reason, it wasn’t working. In fact, it was making the problem worse, my teeth felt even drier than before. This was Cold War Tactic numero uno. I actually freaked out a little, I’ll admit it. I was sitting there in the theater with a shocked and confused look in my eyes while my tongue waggled around like a dying fish. By the time the whole disgusting display of Leia somehow using the force to survive the vacuum of space and get back onto the spaceship ended I managed to calm my mouth down and get back to the beautifully hot mess that was The Last Jedi.
The second Cold War Tactic my body implemented happened earlier this week when I woke up with the sudden awareness of a single hair on my right pinky. Now I, mind you, have always been aware that there are little hairs growing on the back of my hand, but never before this morning have I been able to feel those hairs. So there it was, a single hair on the first knuckle of the pinky on my right hand had somehow had gained sentience and was now making me aware of its existence in the most excruciatingly irksome way possible. This kind of psychological warfare was doing its job. I was going nuts. Every two minutes or so I would be barraged with the sensation of something lightly brushing against my pinky. It was as if someone was relentlessly running the tip of a feather up and down my little finger. By the time it finally stopped I was ready to grab a razor from the bathroom and commit mass murder.
The last, and probably most effective Cold War Tactic my body has used against me since adolescence. It’s a dirty trick that all men have had to deal with at one point or another. The sad, sad situation in which a man is getting up in front of their class to make a presentation and they realize that they are not the only that’s “getting up”. Yeah. I’m talking about that. I know it’s inappropriate, but no act of war is. This particularly cruel strategem doesn’t just break you down mentally, it means you socially. I’ll be in a conversation with someone I haven’t seen in a while when it happens, quite out of the blue. “Hey, Jake, I’m so sorry to have heard about your Aunt Ruth. I know she’s the one who raised you after your parents tried to sell you for drug money.” And then we’ll both look down. A moment of silence will pass. Then I look him in the eye and say “I am really sorry about Aunt Ruth.”
We’ve all gone through cold wars with our bodies at one point or another. As of late, for me, the relationship between my body and I is much like the relationship between the United States and Russia; ambiguous and not really talked about too often. I’ve studied up though, and I think that I have the solution if things flare up again. Looking at the past I’ve realized that the only way to quell a cold war is Escalation. You point one nuke at me, I’ll point three nukes at you. You make it so I can’t have dairy, I’ll take up smoking. I’m sure with enough scare tactics I’ll whip my body into prime shape. In the meantime though, does anyone know any good cheesecake recipes?