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Born Again...and Bloody Irritating!


Benedict

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I’ve gone and done it. I have become a hugely annoying member of the Reformed Church of Eating. And, I’m really aggravated with myself for becoming so.One of my primal vexations in life is the irksome need some people have to spread the word on their own beliefs and religions. Don’t get me wrong - if you believe in a god on high or a holy mushroom that sits at the bottom of your garden, I am fine with that and wish you well in your quest for finding a meaning to life - but please, for the love of Fungi, don’t push it on other people just so you can strengthen your own faith in something you can’t really be too sure about in the first place if you need company on your march to enlightenment.So, as I sat there like a grumpy old man, getting disturbed by other people doing exactly that kind of preaching - by jingo - I looked in the mirror and realised I’ve started doing it myself.Having a gastric band is very much like I imagine being born again is like. You suddenly get the realisation that something else exists out there that is not just the pangs of hunger. You start to appreciate life a lot more and you realise that you can indeed beat the demons. The Nirvana of Slender is within everyone’s grasp and the path to that Utopia has been mapped out before you. What you also start to realise is, those that have not had The Enlightenment are heading to a world of fire and brimstone and even worse…flabby thighs.“To be honest, you’re probably lining your arteries with a well planned excuse for a heart attack there”, I heard myself not only think - but actually say. “Those chips are soaked in unnecessary fats - it’s far worse than smoking”, the hypocritical ex-eater pointed out.When people hear me reciting my Gospel from the Bible of St Lapsicum Bandicum, immediately their reaction is one of disdain. Of course it is and so it bloody well should be. Look at me. Only being nine weeks out of surgery and sounding like I have any right to suggest that I am able to preach to them about anything healthy. Especially because I am not eating healthily, just less. Especially because I throw any kind of health advice I pretend to offer out the window every time I pick up my trusty and well-used wine glass. Especially because the most exercise I do these days is pouring wine into aforementioned wine glass.I hate myself for doing it - but I can’t seem to be able to stop. When I see people eating excessive amounts - it repulses me. It makes me feel nauseous. It makes me feel that they are gluttons…uh oh! Not only have I become a reformed eater - but I have also become one of those people I despised so much for the way they looked at me at the height of my “weight issue”. I have become a fattist.It’s at this point that I would like to say that the above is all very slightly exaggerated for artistic license and for making a point. I do not actually go around belly-bashing, neither do I cowardly stampede everywhere in a white sheet burning extra large bargain buckets in people’s gardens. However, I am feeling some sort of misplaced and unrelenting feeling about the use of food as a comfort blanket.Am I really lashing out at the rotund? How can I be - I am still in the “obese” category. Am I really telling people my belief in my way of eating is any better than theirs? How can I be…it simply isn’t.What I really think is that I am lashing out at food. I have effectively ended my relationship with the bulk of most things nasty and have done so in a highly non-amicable way. It’s a bitter divorce, plain and simple.When I see other people having a relationship with “her”, I become wound up and accuse them of wasting their time - “she” will only bring misery and pain. And, as they don’t listen or amend their ways, then I start to look down upon their judgement.As I mentioned in previous posts, I believe this surgery has provided me with more psychological changes and needs for mental adjustment than it has given any physical ones. So much so, it has actually taken me off guard in some areas and has meant that I sometimes need to slap myself and pull it together - usually by writing these novelettes.I do believe that I am totally unfit to judge anyone else’s eating patterns, as I am only a novice myself. A novice that has been given the vehicle, hand-book and personal tutor that other people may not have had the luxury to have. Maybe one day in the future I will be able to speak with confidence about what I have learned from everything to do with this experience - but as it stands at the moment, I am merely a passenger on a fast train home. As I stare bemused, befuddled and amazed out of the window at the rapidly passing scenery, I can not hope to imagine that I have any right to judge the other passengers on their choice of locomotive or driver, as they stand at the stations that I pass by - waiting for their own train to come along.Here Endeth the Sermon.My Lap Band BlogMy Personal Site

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