Resolutions for a Malfunctioning Body

Head

I resolve to remain clear at all times, recognizing that I am responsible for the actions and processes of others who look to and rely on me.

How often do you ask yourself, “What was that word?” The human brain is capable of fantastic feats of genius. And remarkable acts of stupidity. (I give you the current state of the United States Congress) And lost somewhere in between is the disaster of the overworked (underworked?) synapses.

A snarled Gordion Knot of information, perceptions, thoughts, aspirations, emotions, and sensations.

A supercomputer it may be, but it’s full of faults. And it shorts out at inconvenient moments, leaving gaps in knowledge. You rely on it too much (or is that not enough?) without a single moment of rest. Is it any wonder that it fails?

Or is it simply the frustration that it breaks when you need it most? When you’re speaking with someone of import? As you’re composing something majestic? In front of that idiot you can’t stand? Where everyone knows your name and reputation for intelligence?

When you knew the word a second before?

Heart

I resolve to maintain a steady, controlled routine, regardless of external—or internal—influences that may attempt to persuade me otherwise.

What idiot decided “heart skipped a beat” could mean something positive? As if the notion of your primary circulatory organ choosing to sit one out is similar to the sensation of seeing someone or something appealing. “I love having no blood reaching my organs!” (Yeah, that’s something to desire)

There’s a reason idiosyncratic calls to mind the word “idiot.”

There’s nothing quite as awe-inspiring or delightful as feeling your ribcage drop out of your chest. One second there, the next missing. It immediately conjures up images of first kisses and fireworks. (Possibly thoughts of lost loved ones)

You do get a tingling sensation of anticipation as you wonder whether that lazy organ will decide to pick up again or simply continue to snooze.

But it’s nothing to romanticize.

Unless you happen to enjoy constantly being on the fringe of death. (No accounting for taste)

Stomach

I resolve to perform my job with energy and motivation, regardless of my personal outlook on the day.

What foods will we decide to dislike today? It’s the eternal battle when looking into the refrigerator and cabinet, eyeing the boxes, packages, and produce. (There’s never a shortage of options when you live with a foodie) Unlike the average individual who needs inspiration to eat their calories, you need motivation to get taste and texture past your gullet.

An eternal battle where everyone loses.

The brain-gut connection ensures that a constant stream of items falls off the list of approved foodstuffs. Did you get nauseous after that bite of salad? Too bad—now everything associated with lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers is taboo. End up with pain following a meal of grilled chicken tenders? Kiss that particular poultry farewell. (Unless the stars happen to align and your stomach decides it can’t live without chicken nuggets. Because who doesn’t like chicken nuggets?)

The dance is eternal: will it or won’t it?

Intestines

I resolve to take the time to examine every new complication that arises, giving it thought and consideration before choosing to act.

Should it stay, or should it go? Does it bring us joy? (There’s a perverse sense of logic in thinking the body pays attention to Minimalism) Will we function today, or will we pitch a royal fit and decide to go on strike?

It is a “we,” of course, because the intestines are home to millions of microbes—not one with the same opinion as the other.

You can do everything suggested by whatever guru you choose, and those single-celled overlords will still do exactly as they choose. You’re beholden to colonies of bacteria that you can literally wipe out with a single dose of antibiotics for a sinus infection. (Discounting the resulting retribution from other parts of your body)

Whoever imagined being held hostage by the cousin of the amoeba?

Yet it happens day after day. Despite the faithful cup of yogurt (Greek, non-fat, Skyr, fruit-on-the-bottom, sheep’s milk, almond milk, soy milk, coconut milk, they’ll be milking peanuts soon), enough fiber to choke a cow, and the proper assemblage of fruits and vegetables, your microbiome refuses to work with you. It doesn’t even work with itself.

A dance of back and forth that leads absolutely nowhere. Yet they ironically call everything a “movement.”

Reproductive Organs

I resolve to face the world pleasantly, acknowledging that everyone has a different journey from mine.

“Is it that time of the month?” Does anyone else feel this question should be stricken from the human language? Regardless of sexual orientation, age, or intelligence level, it’s used as a justification for the true sentence no one wants to say aloud: “You’re being a bitch again.”

Why is there such a hang-up overstating the obvious?

There isn’t a female on the planet that isn’t aware of her hormonal state. She’s entitled to her week of raving insanity and chocolate craving. It’s a badge of honor awarded for putting up with the nightmare of bleeding, cramping, and bullshit that comes with a uterus, ovaries, or both. (Surprise! Even after they remove your uterus, you still get to cope with a monthly shift in hormones)

Instead of tiptoeing around the obvious, you should present the female with a crown proudly proclaiming her as “Bitch” for the week—or however long her screwed-up reproductive system has chosen to taunt her. And then deliver ice cream for the duration.

Stop asking such an obvious question that only serves to rile up the beast.

Muscles

I resolve to exercise on a consistent schedule, without fail.

Is there anything worse than injuring yourself without the benefit of an accompanying gym visit? You have the tear in the musculature, the ever-present scar tissue in the joints, and the inevitable arthritis, but the last time you touched a dumbbell, the dinosaurs roamed the earth. (Okay, maybe humans were driving around in chariots; suffice it to say it’s been a few decades)

You have no story to tell.

People turn to you with expectant eyes, waiting for a drama to unfold to explain your sling, your cane, the pathetic limp in your step. And you wince (partially in pain) because the most you can say is that you woke up. (Perhaps stretch the tale to a fantastic martial arts exhibition in your dreams)

You have become a fragile doll prone to breakage at a simple thought of movement. The tissues and fibers in your limbs are the consistency of wet toilet paper. Stretching in the morning warrants a DEFCON ONE alert.

You carry the bandages of a war you’ve never fought in. And if you have any hopes of avoiding humiliation, you must become a master storyteller.

That scar tissue within the shoulder?

Earned from decades of battling sinister characters in the shadows. (Not quite a lie, if you stop to think about it. No one needs to know they’re nothing more than words upon a page)

Nerves

I resolve to listen to my body’s needs at all times, taking time for myself each day without fuss or complaint.

Remember those nightmares you learned to dread as a kid? The ones that always featured you in a starring role of embarrassment? They supposedly have meaning (as if there’s a deep-seated reason why you walk into class without clothing). But I have a different theory.

Your brain is teaching your nerves how to misbehave.

Think about it. The same heated disbelief runs throughout your body, right? Exactly the same as your neural network. And you wake up with a full-body response of humiliation: sweat running from your pores, heart pounding against your rib cage, eyes bulging out of your head, and skin attempting to crawl away from your bones. You know the simulated horror isn’t real, but you respond to the threat as if it were.

Because your brain is coaching your body. A sinister lesson in how to wreak havoc at the most inopportune moments. (If you think that mass of wiggly jelly is on your side, you’re not paying attention)

The dreams lull you into a false sense of security. Not real and harmless. All so your nerves can turn on you and leave you the center of attention in a real event of abject humiliation.

Such as a spectacular double collapse in the line for the teacup ride at the height of Christmas Town at Busch Gardens. (Not even a self-respecting roller coaster, mind you; we’re talking the teacups—a ride small children board)

Your vagus nerve laughs hysterically while you lie on the ground covered in sweat with bulging eyes and a racing heart.

And a good time is had by all.