Course Correction: Retreating From The Danger Zone

An obsessive-compulsive mind can be riddled with impulses, customarily towards actions unproductive and a little bit dangerous.  These requests, however obscure and illogical, are regarded, once performed, as a relief from our greatest anxieties ---a protection from our ultimate fears.  Laughably, my own situation reminds me of dialogue swiped from 1986's jingoistic fighter pilot crowd-pleaser Top Gun, in which James Tolkan's Captain "Stinger" Jordan reprimands Tom Cruise's Naval Lieutenant Pete Mitchell, famously nicknamed "Maverick", for his insubordinate and irresponsible command of the sky.  "Son," he says, tearing into him, "your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."  The dilemma with my own OCD is that its primary function is to assign physical errands and tics meant to combat the onset of obesity, a phobia I've carried from an impressionable early age.  From the beginning, my obedience to these impulses has been loyal -- so much so that now, after decades of restrictive and exhausting habits, I have overcompensated and am markedly wan.  I cannot physically keep up with the piling demands of my sub-psyche.  That is why I am pleased to report that last night I made a realistic appraisal of my energy reserves and finally drew a line.  By a late dinner hour I had already completed several walking chores, and, despite increased food intake based on the recommendation of a dietician, had left my stomach still craving more.  I have dramatically reduced my exercise since returning to my parents' home following a California sabbatical, during which I recognized (not for the first time) my incredibly compromised system and need to reverse anorexic tendencies.  But I have been gradually reinstating aerobic routines since then, most notably the use of my mother's stationary recumbent bicycle, which, when operated aggressively, can be an effective calorie burner.  Before my sojourn to the west coast I was rousing at dawn to use this machine, in shameful secret, and then again pedaling to primetime television or reading before any supper could be had.  In all, it was coming to be around seventy to eighty minutes of energy expended -- and this doesn't take into account my various "power walks" during the day.  By last night I was seeing the absurdity of repeating this patterned pitfall, especially given my expressed desire to finally build new reserves, not further reduce them.  While I had yet to restore much of this activity to my evening routine, it was clear that even one-third was too much for my weary system to oblige.  Therefore, I said, "no."  No -- I will not continue along that path.  No.  I am breaking the chain binding me to loathsome stagnancy, eventual decline, taut face and cadaverous features.  In that fleeting moment, I had corrected my course.  I can only hope to summon that willpower again, to fly responsibly without the wild abandon of an impulsive, capricious social maverick.