“Pour some vegetable oil onto the tawa,” said the woman on TV, sending me into a delirious whirlpool of horrid thoughts that involved carcinogens, smoke points, and sludge feeding on realistic-looking McDonald burgers with extra processed cheese.
This was just fantastic. All that I wanted here was a vacation like most other people. Doing nothing, lazing around with some quintessential, non-stop telly-hogging. That was the ideal, right? Not sure if I needed it, but everybody kept telling me that my symptoms of being overworked were internal. Being a clear-eyed teetotaller with the ideal body fat percentage for a woman in her early 20s, apparently, wasn’t cutting it anymore. There had to be something going wrong inside of me.
Well, I finally found out what it was- I couldn’t stand gluttony. Or any of the other 7 cardinal sins. I might have managed to fight off the pile of pounds that everybody seemed to collect around their rib cage and below their hips as they cushioned their derrieres against the rotating, ergonomic chairs while slouching over ‘work’ that, in no real way, created the food that was being put on the fabled table, but I had instead accumulated these horrid torrent of thoughts in my head, that ate away at my peace of mind.
Here I was, a young, yang-biased lady who had yet to be introduced to the yin within. My head was a mess: in the nooks of my skull was grime made up of disgust and automatic judgments- they were beginning to make me a misanthrope, and in the process, leading to me being stigmatized. In the crannies of the brain wherein the grey and white matters squeezed into each other like star-crossed lovers waiting to be united in death, there were dust bunnies- nice, fluffy grandiose ideas about how I was going to reach the top while earning the admiration of those very, whom I convincingly despised. Caught in the signals shot off by the nerves were tense energy-balls. The tight skin under my (single) chin and spread along my taut muscles, they were almost a metaphor of the tension that was brewing in the nucleus of these cocooning balls, which left me with a perpetual frown on my face that expressed my haughtiness as well as my quizzical curiosity, as well as a perfect posture.
Thank God for that, because it made my spine, which, though under pressure was the only honest bone left in my body, irreversibly strong. I had never been dishonest. Always called a spade a spade. Gave everybody a piece of my mind like candy to trick-or-treaters. However, it seems like I hadn’t cared to be too honest with myself. Honest toward my emotions and my inner world. Honest and authentic. And my spine, it saved me.
I didn’t need the money that I had persuaded myself to deserve. I did not even seem to really want that double-promotion which I thought would validate my efforts, will power, and militarylike self-discipline. The more comfortable I grew with myself and my inner-me, the more suspiciously uncomfortable the cubicle grew of me. I could return a powerful and constructive human-being, but I needed to grow. And this 6x6x4 was probably not enough for me to stretch my legs; I needed the abyss of myself for that, and I certainly couldn’t be my current neurotic-psychotic physical self in here.