cantankerous old bastard

matryoshka

You open one “self” only to find another, and within that self is another, and then there’s another. There’s even a tiny little self inside of that one too.

I HAVE HIGH HOPES FOR 2017. For one, it’s not 2016. That alone is an incredible improvement. The past year took enough beloved artists to crew a ghost ship. One can imagine them all — David Bowie, Prince, Alan Rickman, Umberto Eco, and Leonard Cohen — sailing that wonderful ship into the heavens while the rest of us are stuck here with Donald J. Trump and Vladimir V. Putin.

But we should not despair. We still have ourselves.

The self, yes, the most holy and high entity there is in the modern age. Isn’t that what all health and fitness magazines are about really? The self. You must exercise it. Maintain it. Finesse it. Love it too. Even practice self love — in private. You cannot do without it. At all times you must be testing it, probing it, exploring it. It’s like one of those Russian Matryoska dolls. You open one “self” only to find another, and within that self is another, and then there’s another. There’s even a tiny little self inside of that one too. It’s fascinating. The process of self discovery never ends, rather this game is supposed to keep you entertained for the majority of your time here on the planet.

Until you join the ghost ship with Prince and Bowie. Then a new journey of self revelation begins.

The self is only the vehicle though, the ship. The destination is perfection, or rather a perfect self. The goal is not really about improving the well-being of your community or your family, or if it is, it is through improving yourself. After all, how can you help others if you don’t take care of yourself? Surely, if enough people become vegetarians and do yoga, all will be right with the world. Stronger muscles, a healthier digestive track, healthy skin that glows, great sex — but not too much, an uncluttered mind as mindful as minds can be. Not the Dalai Lama, but close enough. We must hit the gym, lift weights, change our diets, not to mention daily meditation and asanas. And if you feel lost, you can go to India. Many others seem to be able to locate themselves there.

I know I sound like a cantankerous old bastard but hear me out.

As 2017 dawns, I must determine what to do with myself. Should I putter on as I did through the windstorm year that was 2016? Should I binge on coffee, on Internet, on apathy? Should I eat more chocolate, shivering in the cold waters of modern anxiety and restlessness? Or should I flip through one of those fitness magazines and download a bunch of self improvement applications, sign up for tantra courses, and commit myself like the others to the glorious cause of the self?

Mediocrity or perfection, that is the question. And I am starting to think perfection is a worthy goal.

I admit this with some hesitance. Why? Because being mediocre is so comfortable, isn’t it? When I look at the images of men and women who labor away in gyms, I cringe. It’s not jealousy, but a repulsion to anything to do with weight rooms and rowing machines. I hate fitness clubs. For one, you have to pay to go in. You pay to do work you don’t really feel like doing. It’s like college. Also, they stink of sweaty dudes — not my favorite aroma. I think I’d rather shovel horse manure. And yet, other than cross-country skiing, this is really the best place to improve your physique. Other people swear by it and say that it’s the greatest feeling in the world, working out regularly. They all want to be like Arnold Schwarzenegger but the truth is that I’ve never wanted to be like Schwarzenegger. Yet I may no longer have that choice. I’m getting older. I need more energy.

Like Arnold, I must pump iron.

And despite my apprehension about toying with Eastern Philosophies, the reality is that my mood and mindset do improve if I take time out each day to space out for a while. In fact, it’s been happening spontaneously more often, probably because my children are sucking my life essence. I’ll just sit on the couch and find myself staring off into oblivion. Apparently, this is what the Tibetan Buddhist monks do all of the time, other than eating. Maybe those guys are really on to something.

Or maybe these are the earliest stages of dementia?

Whatever they are. I’m in. It’s time to join up with the rest of you here in Estonia. A perfect amount of exercise in a gym next to big smelly dudes named Priit and Märt, a perfect diet of strange dishes cooked up at some vegan restaurant, and some extra expensive tantra courses, of course.

As much as I would like to deride it and resist it, the writing is on the wall for me in this fresh year.

In 2017, I must improve myself.

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