Dearest Rachel –
Since I can’t seem to bring myself to do so at any other time of the weeks, the weekends are my opportunity to try to fast. Purely from a weight-loss perspective, as I have difficulty focusing on spiritual things when I’m hungry (or any other time, for that matter). I need to have my mind occupied with other thoughts – mostly actual work – in order to direct it away from hunger. Of course, this is so much easier when I’m working the booth, since I’m on duty from two in the afternoon on Saturday until half-past six, and then Sunday morning from essentially seven until one; the twenty-four hour stretch from just after noon one day to the next is thus made considerably easier.
By contrast, the one time I’d give myself permission not to fast of a given weekend would be if I were to be out on a date, since those tend to involve dinner and some form of entertainment (or vice versa). But as you might guess from the fact that these letters haven’t included such moments in a very long time, that sort of permission is rarely granted. Which doesn’t mean I can actually accomplish it, but just that I can’t cheat in good conscience; still, I can usually manage to sear it at the same time someone else is searing a burger for me or some such.
As I said, I can’t see fasting as means toward spirituality, any more than I can consider meditation as a path in that direction. It probably has to do with how both were popularly used when you and I were growing up; I can’t speak for your childhood, but as for me, the word “meditation” was often preceded by words like “transcendental” (and both were usually capitalized, because it was a specific – false – belief system), and fasting was, well… considered to be a first step down a dangerous path, and symptomatic of a poor self-image to be overcome.
Of course, Superchick was considerably after “our” time, musically speaking. But obviously, I don’t have to stop there. Our youth had role models like Karen Carpenter who, even as she claimed to be “sitting on top of the world,” was already struggling with the ailment that would ultimately claim her life: anorexia nervosa.
Her passing – specifically from a heart attack, but brought on by the stress of her intense attempts at dieting – brought awareness to the disorder, but that cut both ways; while more effort was put into treatment and prevention, there was also a social contagion of individuals (mostly young girls) who began to suffer from it in rapidly growing numbers. Now, it might have been due to increased recognition and diagnosis, but still, it was a phenomenon in the late seventies and early eighties, as I recall. I even had a babysitter (a one-time theater major who taught me about various accents as a kid in elementary school) who suffered from its sister ailment, bulimia, and passed away in her early twenties, much to my shock at the time.
So yeah, I never thought of fasting as an honorable means of weight loss or spirituality, but a symptom of a potentially deadly mental illness. Worse yet, even being supposedly one of the biggest names in the world couldn’t keep you from falling prey to it.
But of course, I’m sure you’d have a good laugh at some fear I might have of being so obsessed with losing weight that I’d starve myself, or alternate between bingeing and purging myself, in order to do so. Given my (admittedly adoptive, but you never know) heritage, I’d be so much more likely to follow in the footsteps of another person who might have been considered to be atop the world – or at least, his own nation of Sweden – King Adolf Frederick.
Although, to say he was on top of the world would be as misleading as to say it of Karen Carpenter, to be honest. As the story goes, he wasn’t the most intelligent member of the royal line – indeed, his wife made more policy decisions than he did, for what it’s worth – but in a constitutional monarchy, the Riksdag had most of the power, and he was reduced to a mere figurehead.
Contrary to Mel Brooks’ assertion, it’s not always good to be the king, especially when you can’t do much with kingly authority. Still, if one is to be idle, better to be idle and rich; evidently he developed affinities and skills in astronomy and woodworking in his ample free time.
And he ate. We’re talking “hungry caterpillar” eating. But he could afford it – monetarily speaking, that is. I understand it to be exaggerated to the point of legend, but it’s said that his sudden demise was brought on by a herculean bout of overeating, including lobster, caviar, sauerkraut, kippers, champagne, and finished off with fourteen helpings of semla (a pastry resembling a cream puff; clearly a favorite of the king’s). The resulting indigestion proved to be too great a strain on his heart – and while there are apparently some who suggest poisoning was involved, Adolf Frederick does not seem to have been important enough, politically speaking, for anyone to deliberately take out – and to this day, he is known as “the king who ate himself to death.”
Now, I used to enjoy a cream puff now and again (ask Dad, if you think of it, about the Northern Chalet that used to stand on Milwaukee Avenue in Wheeling), but that dinner seems excessive, even for Mardi Gras (or rather, Shrove Tuesday, because that’s what they called the day in Sweden). I’d like to think I wouldn’t go quite so far, even to get my money’s worth out of a buffet; for all my dreams of making a career out of YouTube, mukbang never crossed my mind.
I do find it interesting that, at either extreme – whether one starves oneself, binges on rich food, or does a combination of both, with a little purging brought into the bargain as well – one runs a serious risk of from heart failure. Or perhaps, the heart was weak and sore all along, either from low self-esteem or being otherwise dismissed, and the food issues just gave one that final push. Maybe one heartbreak just leads to another.
In any case, I think I’ll just make myself a sandwich this afternoon, before setting the dinner plate aside until after Sunday services. I’m not going to go overboard either way, if I can help it.
