I went to the doctor’s on Friday. Fear not, reader, I’m not ill but I have been iffy recently and thought better to have a check up in case it turned out to be something I could fix.
After a quick exam I was asked to hop on the scales.
This is par for the course, at least for chubsters like me. I get it. Weight can be an exacerbating factor for many things and a doc should prompt you to get fitter in the same way they should tell people to quit smoking, health promotion is part of their job.
I don’t get when people complain about doctors advising them to lose weight, I mean, sure it should be approached tactfully, but what do you expect them to do? Ignore something that might be detrimental to your health?
So, logically I don’t mind. But I still feel embarrassed. Of course, it was about to get worse.
I stepped on and the shot round like Usain Bolt in a jetpack.
In fact it shot right by the last number.
Yes, my weight was beyond the measurements of the scale.
If only blushing burnt calories. I’d have dropped half a stone easy.
The Doc, without a word, fetched a second scale. This had a display screen. This could show my weight.
I know I’m big. I didn’t expect to step off at 10st or something. But seeing it in black and white hammers home.
Before uni, I was the lightest I had been for years. I was jogging, eating better and walking everywhere. I’m now back where I started in 2011, where I got on the scales for the first time in years.
The weight loss resolution is dead in the water. Penny pinching for the wedding meant I had to stop Chub Club. Laziness and apathy has seen my weight tick up slowly. Worse, I knackered my knee last year and that means jogging is out.
The doctor advised power walking. I have become Harold Bishop.
Dropping weight for the wedding seems a folorn hope. 5 months to go. Suit fitting in a month. I can shift a bit by October, hopefully, but it won’t be a lot.
Looking good and being comfortable in Florida looks unlikely.
The blame lies with me, and I need to buck up and sort this out. I can’t run, but there’s a local gym. It has a pool, but I don’t think I’m ready for that.
I have to do better.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
Would you rather be the best in the world at climbing trees or the best in the world at jumping rope?
I think I would go for the trees, because that’s probably something I’d enjoy more. I could be a nature photographer or something, climbing up to get pictures of the critters and whatnot.
Being able to jump rope well wouldn’t help as I’m not a Victorian schoolgirl or a boxer.
Would you rather live in a cave or a tree house?
Tree house. Aside from people terrified of the slightest height, who would pick the cave? Especially as some tree houses are pretty awesome.
Would you rather have everything on your phone (browser history, pictures etc.) accessible to anyone who Googles you or never use a cell phone again?
The inconvenience of not having a phone would be pretty annoying, especially as I like using my phone as a distraction. But at the same time, would I rather lose that and have my personal stuff shared?
I guess I’d have to sacrifice my phone. Because while it’s highly unlikely people would be Googling me, I’d rather not run the risk of some random getting my emails and text messages.
Would you rather be accidentally responsible for the death of a child or accidentally responsible for the deaths of three adults?
If I’m picking one or the other surely the “accidental” part is out the window? Because you’re choosing one of the options to happen?
This is a really tough one, because like most normal people killing a child is utterly beyond the pale, but it’s rather hard to condemn three over one. Logically you should pick the kid, but there’s that emotional aspect that just messes with you.
This is a rough one. I guess I’d pick the kid, because I think the loss of three adults would have a much wider impact on the world, and the guilt over three lives is bound to be more intense, surely?
Would you rather all plants scream when they are cut/picked or animals beg for their lives when killed?
I imagine that animals make a lot of noise anyway, but as I’m not responsible for killing my own food I don’t have to face that. On the other hand, with plants I do cut the grass occasionally and pick blackberries so the screams would impact my life more.
So, I’d rather animals beg for their lives, simply because I don’t have to hear them.
I wonder if we did have to kill our own food more of us would be veggies?
Would you rather lose your best friend or all of your friends except your best friend?
I don’t really have a best friend, more like a circle of friends who are at the same level. So, I’d probably pick to keep that little group at the cost of everyone else than the other way round as I’ve been mates with them for years, and can probably do without the more distant friends and acquaintances better.
Would you rather have the police hunting you for a murder you didn’t commit or a psychopathic clown hunting you?
I hate clowns.
At least the cops would have to abide by certain rules and hopefully could be convinced of my innocence. But a psycho clown? Probably not open to reason.
And I’d be freaked out the whole time. So, I’d take the police option. Unless I thought there was a chance I could take the clown.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
Farmer Giles looked up in the sky, just as a bird pooed in his eye, said Farmer Giles “Thank goodness cows can’t fly”
My grandad died the other week, after a short spell in hospital. He was 86, and when he was admitted it was clear that his time was coming to an end.
The poem at the start is something my Bampa told us when we were kids and in the days after his passing popped into my sister’s head.
Memories are what we are left with when a loved one passes on. Memories which define how we carry on the person inside us.
My grandad and I didn’t always get on. As I grew into a lazy, geeky teen he must have felt that we had little in common. Bampa had worked since he was 14, and was a traditional man in many ways, he could make things, he could fix things, and I suspect he saw me as soft. My long hair annoyed him and he’s often tell me that “two years in the army” would sort me out.
But I know he loved me. And all of his family. He didn’t say it, I don’t think he knew how. He came from a time when men didn’t talk about their feelings, or even admit they had them.
But we knew. It was there in the fact he always asked how we were doing, in the small kind moments and the way he was with us. The pride he had in the achievements of his kids and grandkids. He was never soft, but there was warmth and gentleness there.
He and my Nan were married for over 50 years, and they seem to have spent most of that time bickering. If there is an afterlife they’ve probably started back up again.
I choose to remember Bampa in his house with my Nan. Winking at us as he deliberately wound her up or teased her. Of telling us the same jokes over and over, but his delight in them and the delivery always raising a smile even if you groaned first.
I remember him telling stories, either of his childhood mischief, no doubt exaggerated, or made up yarns which kept us hooked and begging for a few more minutes before bed. Stories of magic and ghosts, which we lapped up.
I’ll remember him whenever I watch football.
Remember the wooden goal he built in the garden so we could play, of his coaching in how to pass and head. Of his criticism of divers and talk of how it had been “in his day”, when the ball was heavy and the rules more relaxed.
His patience when I bounced around on the sofa jabbering away, trying to copy the players I loved. I’ll remember sitting next to him and my Dad at the Vetch when they took me to my first Swansea game. It rained, but I didn’t care. We won and I loved the noise and feeling grown up.
I’ll remember him and it won’t matter that he’d believe and jump on every health far the paper told him. Or that he gave me grief about my long hair.
I’ll remember him for the hero he was to me as a kid, and the man I understood better as an adult. I’ll love him for being my Bampa, and a central figure in countless happy memories.
Another batch of would you rather questions
Would you rather live as a regular person in a utopia or live in dystopia but you are the supreme ruler?
In a utopia I imagine that living as a regular person is probably alright, maybe a bit dull, but no major worries. I would have to pick that.
While I can imagine that being supreme ruler would be pretty cool, if it’s a dystopia that means that there are unhappy people out there and you’d have to deal with them trying to kill you. That would suck, and also could you really enjoy knowing that you’d made the majority of people suffer for your power and comfort?
I don’t think I’d do it, so yeah, I’d be a regular guy in a perfect world.
Would you rather be forced to kill a kitten or a puppy?
Damn, this is a dark one. Do I have to answer?
Are we talking forced as in one of those “unless you kill this animal the world ends” kinda deals? Because in that case I guess it would have to be, and don’t hate me for this, a puppy. What can I say, I’m a cat person,
Would you rather live in a haunted house where the ghosts ignored you and did their own thing or be a ghost in a house living out a pleasant and uneventful week of your life again and again?
Have the ghosts ignore me. I find it hard to imagine anyone picking the other option. Can you imagine having to go over the same week again and again. Having a house with some ghosts would definitely be the better option.
You would have proved that ghosts exist and could charge people to come see them. It has that going for it, while being a ghost yourself means that (a) you’d be stuck in a loop and (b) you would have to die!
Would you rather be famous for inventing a deadly new weapon or invent something that helps the world but which someone else gets credit for?
You’d have to be a serious egomaniac to go for the weapon option, wouldn’t you? I’d hope that the satisfaction of helping millions of people would be enough without the glory and I’d be happy to.watch the good without getting the credit.
I’d rather do that than have a name cursed for inventing something that kills people.
Would you rather move to a new city/town every week or never leave the city/town you were born in?
Moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do, so sod that. Especially as I’d be moving where I didn’t know anyone. Nope, as flawed as Swansea is, I would much rather live there than have to pack my stuff up every week. And it has perks- a lot of my friends are local, I could go see the Swans and Ospreys and I know the city quite well.
Would you rather get £5 for every song you sing in public or £50 for every stranger you kiss?
As terrible as my voice is and as much as I hate performing, I would have to become a busker or karaoke regular to make that cash. I’m a happily engaged man so have no desire to kiss strangers anymore, so I’d take the singing as I’d earn more money that way.
Would you rather live under a sky with no stars at night or under a sky with no clouds during the day?
This is probably the easiest one this time around. I would pick to have no stars. While they’re pretty to look at I just think that clouds are more useful, because of rain and also the British public aren’t ready to live in constant sunshine. We’d live in a constant state of barbecues and lobster coloured workmen.
Would you rather wake up as a new random person every year and be in control of them for a year, or one day a week go into a stranger’s body but have no control?
As appealing as living as someone else might seem, I think constantly shifting every year would be a drag. So, I guess I’d rather just go into someone else for one day a week as an observer. It might be frustrating if they were making bad choices or doing things you disagree with, but it might be interesting to see the world from a fresh angle.
Disagree with my choices? You know what to do. BETEO.
I read an article recently about why people shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving work on time. My reaction was surprise that someone would feel bad about that.
For me I always want to finish on time, if not early, and if possible I like to walk out on the dot without a backward glance.
Leaving late provokes nothing but rage. I give 37.5 hours a week to my employers as agreed, every single second over that is mine and therefore precious.
The only time I would happily leave late is if I worked flexitime, and so knew that half an hour every day Monday-Thursday would mean I could start my weekend two hours earlier on Friday. Or if I worked where you had a decent clocking in system which would add all the extra minutes over a month and pay you for them.
But most jobs don’t work that way. I’ve always for an hourly wage, and in some cases unless you go way over you don’t get paid extra. Five, ten minutes over and you’re working for free.
So, why should I feel guilty? I’ve done what I’m paid to do, and I don’t owe my employer anything beyond that.
And if I did work a salaried job 9-5 I’d expect and hope to be out by 5:01. I have a friend who was in at 7pm one evening, still at the office. Bugger that. If I stayed that late I’d have a lie in the next day, rock up at 11. Or expect a bonus.
I know some may be tutting over this, criticising my work ethic. Well to them I have one thing to say;
“Strong work ethic” sounds like a good thing.
But who is it good for? Your boss is who.
Seriously, most times someone is praised for their work ethic you may as well be praising them for making it easier for their boss to walk over them.
Staying late? Taking on extra responsibilities and duties?
Who wins? Your boss. They get more of your time for the same price, or more work out of you. If you work somewhere that wants you to routinely finish late or have to do more than what you’ve signed up for your boss probably needs to hire more staff.
Your strong work ethic helps them to save money by not hiring and paying somebody else. And you’re stopping someone else from having a job. Bravo.
The employee-boss relationship is a deal. You exchange your time and toil for their cash. As long as you meet your half of the bargain (agreed hours and duties) then you deserve the payment. If they want you to exceed that they should match that increase, if they’re not going to, then screw ’em.
You kept your part of the deal, now get your arse home.
Because nobody is going to be on their deathbed lamenting the fact they didn’t spend more time at work. Go home. Have fun. See your loved ones.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
So, I recently found this list of “Would You Rather?” questions and thought they might be quite good to do as blog posts. It’ll give me something to write when I’m blocked and I figure I can run them as a regular feature on the blog. If you agree or disagree with my decisions or arguments then feel free to comment down at the bottom. Let’s dive in (decided to shuffle through randomly apart from first three):
Would you rather always be 10 minutes late or 20 minutes early?
Initially I was going to say I’d rather be late because getting there early is a drag and sitting around waiting for someone always makes me feel awkward. But then I thought being ten minutes late would actually be more frustrating, you’d miss the start of things and more importantly always piss your mates off. So I’d go for always being early, and just make sure I took a book or had my phone charged.
Would you rather lose all your money and valuables or all of the photos you’ve ever taken?
Call me mercenary, but I’d rather lose all the photos I’ve ever taken. I’d be able to take more photos. Thankfully I’m at a stage where I can still remember all the good times I’d want photos of, and I think it would be easier to live without them than all the cash I have.
Would you rather be able to see 10 minutes into your future or 10 minutes into the future of anyone but yourself?
I’m not entirely sure on this one, because seeing ten minutes ahead for you would be interesting but would rob you of any surprises. Ten minutes into someone else’s future might actually be cooler and more interesting. I think if you could swap who you saw that would be awesome, because you could be ahead of the curve on everything.
I’d also be able to be a great reporter as I’d always update quickly.
Would you rather be an average person today or a king 2500 years ago?
I can definitely see the appeal of being a king.
But I imagine that life 2500 years ago would be kinda dull even as a royal. No novels? No pop music? Lower life expectancy? Superstition running wild? Nah, I think I’ll stay an average Joe today.
Would you rather have no fingers or no elbows?
My first instinct was to get rid of my elbows, but then I realised how awkward it would be to walk around with constantly straight arms. It would make life so much harder and would mean I couldn’t do things like hug MWF or hold my kids in the future. So, I guess I’d have to get rid of my fingers. I just think there’s more in place to help with that than to assist an elbowless man.
Would you rather get tipsy from one sip of alcohol and ridiculously drunk from just one alcoholic drink or never get drunk regardless of how much you drink?
Tipsy off one sip would be pretty cool. I mean, it’d be easier to avoid getting absolutely hammered, as you would just not drink past a sip or two, and you’d save money to reach the fun drunk stage.
Never getting drunk would be annoying, you’d go on a night out and just be sober until the end. As someone who needs a bit of a buzz to really cut loose on the dance floor it would mean I’d never dance again, which while no loss to the world of dance would be a bummer as I quite like a boogie.
Would you rather always be able to see 5 minutes into the future or always be able to see 100 years into the future?
If it was a one time thing I would pick the 100 years option because it’d be quite cool to see where we are in a century’s time, but if it’s something I do a lot then I think the five minutes is more useful. I mean, it’d be great for gambling purposes but also be rather handy for other stuff, like fighting crime. I’m assuming I see five minutes ahead but can impact or react to it. Seeing what is going to happen with no control would just be a pain.
But how creepy would it be to look five minutes into the future and just see nothing?
Would you rather randomly time travel =/- 20 years everytime you fart or teleport to a different place on Earth (on land, not middle of ocean) whenever you sneeze?
I’m assuming you come back, right? Like fart one is forward twenty and then the second fart brings you back? And the same principle for the sneezes, right? For the purpose of this question I’m using that as the rule.
I would go for the farting one. For starters, I sneeze more often than I fart so it’s less of an inconvenience, and I also seem to sneeze when I get out of the shower, so I’d wind up just turning up at different places naked and confused. Also, I could jump into a very dangerous situation, like a less fun version of Quantum Leap.
And while that idea might seem funny to you, and might produce hilarious consequences I feel it would more likely create embarrassing and potentially legally hazardous ones.
Top 5 Worst Places to Just Appear Naked:
- A school, I don’t want to be on a register or scare/traumatise some kids.
- One of those strict countries where I’d probably get lashes/prison unless I could sneeze again.
- Middle of the pitch during a major sporting event, in front of thousands in attendance and millions, and millions, watching at home.
- Inside Buckingham Palace or the White House, as might get shot by security forces.
- Porn set. I can live without having to compare myself physically to a porn star in person.
Would you rather spend two years with your soulmate only to have them die and you never love again or spend your life with someone nice you settled for?
First of all, I don’t believe in soulmates. The whole idea seems daft to me, I think you’re a full person on your own and don’t need someone to complete you.
Also, I would rather have a long life with someone nice than two years and then loneliness until death. So, yeah, I’d pick the “settle” option, although the phrasing is a little harsh. I think knowing they were going to kick the bucket after two years would actually be even worse.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
Does what it says on the tin.
Names: Thumper and Cottontail
Rabbits are the worst.
My sisters and I were suckered in by the fact they look cute and are traditionally portrayed well, like Bugs Bunny, Bucky O’Hare and Buster, Arthur’s mate.
But when we got them we realised they are awful pets.
They didn’t like being held, they didn’t do much and they lived in the garden, taking up space I had previously used as a stand in for Wembley stadium.
We had the long eared pains for a couple of years but the novelty wore off pretty quick. Our only real interaction with them came as we chased them around the garden after their many escape attempts. It would have probably been better for all if we’d just let them take their chances on their own.
After a while my mum took over looking after them as we got bored of the twitchy nosed tools. It’s a sign of how much we’d gone off them that Thumper, the last bunny standing, was dead for a few days before us kids realised, my mum curious as to how long it would take (note: Mum had disposed of his body compassionately, just didn’t tell us of his untimely demise).
6. Pet Rock
Name: Forgotten as changed often.
I got these as a gift. They were basically some rocks with faces on. They sat on my shelf.
So, how are these better than rabbits?
- They took up less room
- None of my pet rocks ever bit me
- I never used a rabbit to squish a giant spider
Yeah, so Rocks > Rabbits. Unless you’re making a stew.
Names: Gwyneth, Willow and more that I forget.
For those who don’t remember, Tamagotchi were a big deal in the late ’90s. These pocket sized electronic pets were everywhere and kids were obsessed with them. One such kid was my youngest sister.
Unfortunately, the kids were so invested in keeping the crudely animated blobs alive that they weren’t focusing in class. And so, my sister’s school banned them. But I was in big school and so took on the responsibility as our teachers were more worried about stopping their students smoking or getting pregnant.
I renamed the thing Gwyneth after Miss Paltrow, which makes no sense as I wasn’t a fan of hers. But I must have had a reason.
At first I kept her alive to help my sister, but soon she’d lost interest and I was obsessed with keeping it going. Gwyneth lived quite a long time before she bought the farm and I replaced her with Willow. Willow didn’t live as long and after that, jaded by the losses, there were a few others who didn’t last long.
I inherited Pablo after my second attempt at uni. He was our flat pet and originally belonged to my flatmate Phil. However, I took custody and he lived with me for a while.
Hamsters are odd pets. They’re quite shy and dislike being held, which limits their fun factor. However, they are very cute and at least do stuff like running on their wheel.
I spent a lot of time talking to Pablo, jabbering away to him when I was alone. It was company while everyone else went about their lives and I stayed in, hunting jobs.
He put in a good innings by hamster standards but sadly went to play on the big wheel in the sky.
Names: Squishy and Fang.
I expected Squishy to die from the moment I got him.
I won him at a funfair, and he was tiny. I gave it a couple of weeks before I had to flush him.
But the little guy surprised me. He grew quickly and seemed in good health. He even survived a fire in our halls. And the drive home from Lampeter.
In fact, Squishy would live for another seven years, joined in 2006 by Fang, who is still going.
They might not be the most entertaining of pets but I loved Squishy for his survivor attitude and the connection to my uni days. They’re also quite calming to watch and, like hamsters, easy to talk to.
Honourable mentions: Phoebe, Millie, basically every other dog I’ve met.
My little sister really wanted a dog. After years of pleading and promises my parents relented. Unfortunately, the dog we got was Carrie.
Part Jack Russell, part English Bull Terrier, part unspecified dog and part hellhound, a family new to dogs couldn’t have picked worse.
We had her a few years during which she moved from cute puppy to raging bitch. She’d lunge for other dogs, for cyclists, for pretty much anything that walked or crawled. She would drag our cat about by the scruff of his neck, the cat too soft and dim to run away.
Finally, she bit all three of my sisters. My mum realised my little sister, driving force of Team Dog, was scared of the white ball of rage. Carrie was rehomed and the Page family chalked up dogs as a failed experiment.
Two of my sisters are now firmly on Team Cat. But me? While I love felines, I still want a canine buddy.
This is because every other dog I’ve met has been tidy. I’ve dog sat for friends and I love dogs. I mean, cleaning up their shit is a drag.
But I genuinely love dogs. MWF’s mum has a Jack Russell who is amazing. All my mates’ dogs are ace too.
And so I would really like a dog in future, with my preference being for a French Bulldog.
Names: Tom, Jerry, Tiger, Yoga, Tad, Llew, Midnight and Pumpkin.
As the above list shows, cats are the most consistent pet I’ve had. There were cats when my mum brought me back from the hospital, and there has been at least one cat in the Page house since then.
MWF is a crazy cat lady waiting to happen, and so early on we knew that we would always have cats.
Enter Midnight, our wonky eyed cat who was followed by Pumpkin, a manic ball of energy who speeds around the house like a white and orange Tasmanian Devil. Sadly, Midge and Pumps didn’t get on, so Midnight has returned to MWF’s mum’s house while Pumpkin is now the boss here.
Cats tick a lot of boxes. They are cute and like attention, without being needy about it. They have distinct personalities, and are entertaining to watch, there’s a reason cats dominate the internet. You can play with them but they’ll also just curl up and chill with you. And they are loveable.
In my opinion cats are the best pets. You can disagree. But you’re wrong.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
“Are you going to shave for the wedding?”
This is something I’ve been asked quite a lot recently. Sometimes repeatedly by the same person, which is a little annoying. One of my friends is not a fan of the face fuzz and clearly feels that I would look better clean shaven on the big day. This is fine, but as I’ve stated that my opinion opposes this the matter should be laid to rest now, right?
This is the first time I’ve really grown a beard properly. Prior to this I just used to occasionally let it grow for a while because I was too lazy to shave regularly. I am terrible at shaving, and would emerge smooth faced and bleeding like a character in an ’80s slasher movie.
As a student nurse I had to keep myself tidy while on placement, mainly because of the constant whining of my mentor. However, since I decided nursing wasn’t for me, I’ve not shaved in about a year and a half.
I’m not sure I should share that as it highlights just how patchy and crap my facial hair growth is. Seriously, look at the above photo. There’s enough hair there for me to rock a decent moustache and chin beard, but it’s all spread out across my face, meaning that my beard isn’t the best. I wish it was like one of those old magnet and iron filings things where I could just move the hairs around my face until I had a decent full beard.
I’d love to boast a full on Grizzly Adams beard, but alas, my hair grows in a stupid pattern. At least it now looks like an intentional beard, for a while it just looked like laziness.
This is a downside of having a beard at the moment. I get the sense that people see it as me following the current trend for hirsute men. This isn’t true, it’s just a coincidence that beards are “in” while I’ve grown mine.
The reasons for my beard? Simple really;
- My hatred of shaving
- Laziness. It’s one less thing to do during my early morning zombie state.
- MWF likes the hairy look, so making her happy is an additional perk.
- The last time I did shave, for a job interview, I looked really young. And stupid. So, I’ll stick with mature and stupid for the foreseeable future.
I’ll give the beard a trim before the wedding, so that I look a little smarter than normal, but I don’t think shaving it off would do much.
Besides, it doesn’t matter how tidy I look at the start of the day, sooner or later I’ll spill food or drink down myself and shatter the illusion of being a smartly dressed grown up.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
I don’t think it was deliberate. I don’t think a child that small is capable of such casual meanness but unknowingly the five year old was trolling every single member of Chub Club.
As we queued nervously to be weighed or flicked through our books realising treats would have to be sacrificed this little girl danced happily in the centre. The focus of all the group’s envy.
Firstly, she was happy and comfortable in a way that had abandoned her elders present. Her dancing was untempered by self consciousness, boundless enthusiasm making up for any ability or music. But more than this, and the real reason for the jealousy was that she happily are a Cadbury’s Wispa without any remorse.
I’m not saying nobody else present has eaten chocolate recently, but I doubt any have done without a twinge of guilt or lack of thought.
I’d eaten a pack of M&Ms with the Superbowl and had regretted it. As I queued for the scales I felt distinctly pessimistic about how I had done this week. The M&Ms had followed a pepperoni pizza and been followed by a small stack of ginger nuts.
It was barely a drop in the excess of Superbowl weekend globally, but it was still a mistake and a moment of greedy weakness, under the flimsy excuse that it was a special occasion.
So I wasn’t feeling confident.
I paid my membership and then emptied my pockets, removed my shoes and hoodie and rechecked my pockets. I neared the front of the line, the scales looming and my spirits low.
I’d followed the new regime, but there had been a few wobbles and there was nowhere to hide. I hadn’t given my all and I was about to reap the consequences on the display.
Stepping into the scales I watched the number climb. And climb and then stop.
I gaped in surprise.
I had lost 4.5 lbs.
I was pleased with my slightly undeserved success and decided that I needed to steady myself. The wobbles must stop and I had to fully commit. Stock to the rules and not go over my treat allowance.
I prepped a salad and healthy snack for my shift the next day and watched TV.
But as I lay in bed awaiting sleep the voice of greed started to whisper.
“I could murder a Wispa right now.”
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
Those two words can drag you right down the rabbit hole. You think about how things might have played out differently, chances missed and roads not taken.
Of course, it’s all pointless. Any science fiction fan knows that one slight change can create a whole parallel world.
Given a time machine and the chance to do things over would I, knowing it risked what I have now?
My life isn’t perfect, and there are things I’d change but for the most part I’m happy. I’m marrying a fantastic woman later this year and am relatively healthy. Who knows what altering something I did might do?
Let’s say I went back and worked harder in uni the first time, actively pursued a writing career and became a writer for real. Read by thousands, not just whatever schmucks stumble across my blog. In some alternate world I might be their version of Hunter S. Thompson or Norman Mailer.
But without the winding, unplanned path I’ve taken the past decade I wouldn’t have wound up trying to be a nurse. I wouldn’t have met MWF and wouldn’t be sat in our house, our cat dozing on my lap, writing this. I might be sat lonely in some flash flat, or dating someone I don’t love. I could be divorced. I could be dead.
That’s the scary thing about the whole alternate reality thing. Sure, there are infinite possibilities of where your life has taken you but there are millions of universes where your story already finished. Or never even began.
Worlds where your mum and dad never met because some minor event went a different way earlier on. And the whole thing just expands to mind bending proportions. The fact that it’s you reading this is a result of thousands of years of things going a certain way, and that one tiny bump might have meant it didn’t happen.
Hell, a chromosome either way and you’d be a different gender.
It’s the kind of thing that starts to mess you up when you think about it. When you realise just how close you’ve come to having a different life. The whole thing is an exercise in wishful thinking, you wonder about how you could have done stuff right and been better off, but the fact is at a certain point you’d have stopped being you.
Our experiences are what shapes us, I am who I am because of the mistakes and failures along the way as much as my wins. I’ve learnt and grown because of things which have hurt me or been difficult, and if I had a smoother road I might have developed in a different way. And the fact is, while I know there are parts I could improve, for the most part, I like who I am today.
I may not have the job I want, but in the world where I played for Wales or became a superhero I might have lost out on the stuff I do have.
So why torture myself with what if questions? I should just appreciate the good that I have in my life, and work to change the parts I don’t like.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.