The trouble with paunch is that it appears so gradually, nearly imperceptibly, like dough rising. “No, I’m not gaining weight,” we convince ourselves. “I look the same as I did last week and the week before.”
But when we glimpse a picture of ourselves from a year ago or five years ago, we may see a person we don’t quite recognize.
“That was me?’ we exclaim. “Golly, what happened? I’ve porked out!”
Yup. Porked out. The five or ten pounds can hide beneath baggier clothes for a while. But the arguments to justify our progressively dilapidated appearance have already begun.
I’m told that our behavior works something like this: Cues trigger habits that result in rewards. That’s the habit chain.
We sit down to watch TV–that’s the cue. (Now the brain is on autopilot.) This launches the trigger—go to the refrigerator. Finally, the reward—the almond caramel fudge ice cream. Each time we perform this ritual, the cue-trigger-reward process is reinforced.
Our behavior will only be altered by identifying and removing or modifying the habit chain so that the sequence of events is broken.
Like the grasshopper who paid attention only to his own comfort instead of gathering food for the winter, we choose to maintain the convenience of our unhealthy habit chain.
Here’s the even more uncomfortable part. After the habit chain plays havoc with our lives, and things have gone from bad to worse, a different word describes our behavior.
It’s a scary word that refers to the unwillingness to take advice or correction.
The leaves and other tree droppings have permanently etched brown stains into her once-handsome skin. Her plastic headlight covers, foggy and scratched, need cataract surgery to restore their illuminating beams. Her tires are well-worn like ancient running shoes. Her running gear has logged nearly 150,000 miles.
In short, she is old, tired and increasingly feeble. She has faithfully served transportation needs for nearly a decade-and-a-half without complaint. If car years track similarly to dog years, she is nearing 98 years old.
Though she is still running, I have been advised to dump our gerontological companion. Possible dangerous behaviors and huge repair bills loom just around the corner. The cost of repairing her now exceeds her dollar value in the used car market.
When she departs my driveway for the last time, she will leave a small stain of oil behind, a reminder of her that will fade with time. She will carry with her the secret stories of our lives. How she carried me and patiently waited for me while I interviewed for a desperately-needed job. When ferrying the family pet to the veterinarian, she never complaining about the scratchy toenails and the fleas it deposited. She faithfully carried vast quantities of weekly groceries, enduring spilled jugs of milk and the sharp spikes of pineapple skin.
Like precious gifts left in the tomb of an ancient pharaoh, she will carry off bits of our lost pocket change hidden in a corner of faded carpeting, and stale gummy bears concealed beneath folds of stained upholstery.
I understand that, in time, the pain over losing our nonagenarian vehicle will pass.
But when the first of the 72 loan installments to pay for her replacement comes due, the memory of losing her will be all the more bittersweet.
Perhaps you’ve been there, smack in the middle of a roomful of folks you didn’t plan on spending the evening with. You feel out of place. But you are expected to be there—it’s an obligation. Endeavoring to bridge the discomfort gap, you find yourself attempting to create interesting small talk with a woman whom you’ve never met before. She asks how you like your job and your boss. Fishing for a scintillating response, you turn a phrase that goes to the edge of your comfort zone.
“He’s a good guy to work for,” you suggest, “even though his three-way bulb seems stuck on ‘dim’ most of the time.” It’s a mild dig that many an employee might utter, out of their boss’s earshot.
She laughs at your cleverness; you secretly crow at your ability to charm.
Only later, as you drift awkwardly around the currents of the other partygoers, do you discover—in horror—that the woman you were trying to impress with your clever comments is your boss’s wife’s best friend. Your life passes before your eyes. You search for a rewind button, but there is none. Your head feels like exploding. You feel broken, inexcusably stupid, and prepare a vow that you will never again flirt with stupid small talk. You consider cutting out your tongue.
In the far corner of the room, four women are remarking over images on a cell phone—pictures of a baby. The women gush over the child in the customary, “Oh, how cute!” and, “So sweet!” vernacular. Linda offers an expression intended to trump the small talk of the other women.
“Look at the cute nose!” Linda exclaims, “Why, it’s just like Allen’s!”
The comment is met with dead silence. Finally, “Linda, who is Allen?”
Too late, Linda realizes that she’s the only one who knows about the existence of Allen, and Allen’s relationship with the “oh-how-cute” baby’s mother.
Linda feels the temperature in the room spike, turning her head to hide her face’s fierce scarlet color. “Hello, Joan!” She pretends to recognize a friend across the room, her means of escape. Behind her, and not trailing off quickly enough, Linda hears her soon-to-be former friends, who don’t pretend to be fooled: “Who’s Allen?”
I’ve never tried blowing up a tomato in a microwave, but it must be the same explosive temperature that our heads reach when we realize we have just said way too much. The ears blaze. The throat seizes as if attempting to swallow a small grapefruit.
Moments later, the blood abandons the head as quickly as it arrived, leaving the cheeks pale. Below the eyes, faint veins just beneath the surface paint the skin a sickly green pallor. Depression creeps into our lightheadedness. Knees twitch and wobble.
We have committed an unpardonable sin. How can we recover? We feel shipwrecked, marooned, and without the means to express our sudden and agonizing torment.
“When will I just learn to shut up?” we agonize.
Days later, a work associate pulls up a chair and queries us about our apparent declining condition. As our world comes unglued, it becomes increasingly difficult to disguise our demise. We agonize as we wade through the muck of our fallibilities, ashamed and embarrassed.
After our gut-wrenching confession to our workmate, the friend offers only unanticipated silence.
“Well?” we demand, “How can I ever put my life together again? The shame!”
The patient friend on the chair finally offers an unexpected response.
“I used to be like you,” he explains. “I agonized over the things I’ve said and the length of time people would remember my inappropriate comments.”
He pauses, then finishes. “I know you feel lousy over what you think you’ve communicated to others.
“But don’t worry about it. Nobody ever really listens to us as much as we think they do!”
