The Roaming Empire Got Nowhere.

I'm reading a book about Stoic Philosophy called 'The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy' and am impressed with its breadth and depth. A recent discussion forum question called me into my kitchen recently, and as my refrigerator hummed, my thoughts followed suit. I realized that I don't think about food. At all. Until it's securely fastened and lowered indelicately aboard my stomach's listing sloop, it is more intangible than finding a goat eating my fuzzy air mattress. Independent living has cast my dietary habits askew, allowing me not to reconsider my harmless habits, but to become more aware of the choices I daily take to reaffirm my routines.

When I eat alone, my choices are always much more bland, designed for thoughtlessly rapid consumption. Yet, I eat well, and just in case, supplement with vitamins until my urine discolors. But a survey across the mostly barren white surroundings of my refrigerator would indicate a very comfortable array of snacks, chosen for their commendable abilities to combine with one another, in another foray into the incredible adventures of cooking with carbohydrates.

In your graciously allowing digression, it's interesting how many people confuse health with weight, like the two are oiled-up bedfellows. Imagine a doctor saying, 'well, his liver was totally damaged, and that's why he went into that coma that caused him to miss his daughter's wedding, but he can still fit into a size thirty-two.' To me, a skinny me is a nervous me, whereas a fuller me is one to whom the demons are still awaiting their eventual parole.

Roman Stoic philosophy would wager my gastronomic austerity to be deliberate, a way of voluntarily denying myself pleasure (taste, in this case) to later reward and praise myself for asserting my will-power and discipline. All of which increases senses of being able to better exercise control in other worldly affairs, and the cycle, if practiced, will become more ingrained, and more deeply applied. I'm not eating that ice cream not because I'm on a diet, but because I know I will feel better delaying myself a pleasure when I finally fill my bowl.

I eat out about four times a week, usually at restaurants that specialize in bolder, spicier dishes, and for as many times as I've done so in the past year, I have never once found anything distasteful or unpleasant about the experience of eating cuisines with things other than the blandly comfortable numbness that comes from my kitchen. On two occasions I didn't eat the meal, when a bone was in the fish, and a hamburger was too raw. I tipped handsomely, settled up and left, reveling in the experience of seeing the shiny, oxidizing blood mix with the grease, and nestle by the fries. At home, my hummus sits like dirty paste in its tub, and my chips grow stale for want of a simple rubber band.

It's no coincidence that the times in my life which most accurately define confident tranquility have been in knowing Stoic advocacy, gifting myself with momentary rehearsals with new opportunities to practice. Times when I've surrendered to reward have always been done with implicit consent, as I could just as easily choose to do the opposite, and exercise restraint, have frequently caused tension, disappointment, and have longer-lasting consequences. This in turn foments anxiety, which means I'll be skinnier, which means that I'll be considered healthier, regardless of how badly my fingers smell of garlic.

Some thoughts for you, as the sun gives it another admirable go.