I’m really disgusted by the way science works. Apparently, on a planet such as this one, a person (I’m not going to say who) can gain fifteen pounds over the course of three months (if he eats enough carbohydrates to feed the army of a small nation), but can’t lose those same fifteen pounds in five days. Come on. Who makes these rules? I’d like to have word. Maybe I could request a different planet to live on, one where eating carrot cake and wheat beer makes your ass smaller instead of larger. Who’s with me?

Everyone wants to call dramatically altering your eating habits a “lifestyle change,” but let’s admit it. It’s a fucking diet. I think it’s interesting that just like there’s no “I” in teamwork, there’s no “life” in diet either. However, there is “die” in diet, which sounds about right. Done correctly, a good diet is a death. Here lies refined sugar. In the name of our lord, we remember thee fondly.

Five days into this diet, I continue to be cranky. I should probably lock myself in my room until it’s over or until my body gets the message that having a chocolate shake on a daily basis is not a requirement for happy living. Until then, it’s throwing a temper tantrum. But in light of the fact that I’m already down a few pounds and can now find my hip bones, I’m willing to keep things up and trust that this piss-poor attitude will eventually pass.

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Karen Armstrong called A Short History of Myth, in which the author discusses what myths are and why we need them. She says that for most of human history, myths helped mankind feel important, connected to the world and divinity around him. But since Newton and the scientific method, a lot of that has been lost. Rather than being a mystery, life has become a collection of facts, something that can be measured.

Lately I’ve been hyper-focused on my posture. No one gives a shit about this except me, but for whatever reason, my head turns slightly to the left, almost all of the time. I’ve noticed recently that my hips do the same thing, and if I consciously square my hips, it helps square my head as well. But without the correction, my body seems to be permanently twisted, like a sapling that’s managed to survive a hard storm.

This posture problem–I imagine–has been going on a long time, but since I’m now aware of it, it drives me crazy. I’m constantly trying to correct it, constantly hoping heaven will hand me down a miracle, even though I’ve never heard of an archangel who gives chiropractic adjustments. It seems I have literally made myself a problem, and part of every day is devoted to worrying about it, searching high and low for an answer. Honestly, it’s like a hobby that’s not any fun.

I had an older friend tell me once that there’s a great dissolution that happens in your thirties, that at some point you realize life isn’t the dream you thought it was going to be. Rather, he said, it sucks. (I’m paraphrasing.) Honestly, it wasn’t an uplifting conversation, and it reminded me of my dad’s line–One day you’ll be old and fat. I think my friend’s point was that when you’re younger you think your body can leap tall buildings in a single bound, but when you’re older you realize that gravity applies to you too.

Personally, I fight this thinking tooth and nail. It’s not that I think I can fly. I don’t jump off bridges for fun. But I don’t believe that everyone has to get old and fat, or at least that those two things have to go together. And whereas I’m all for reality and the collection of facts, I’m also for the mythological, the mysterious, and the idea that anything can happen for anyone, at any age. I like to think that a tree doesn’t have to stay twisted forever.

I went for a run tonight, but my body really wasn’t having it, so I ended up walking, deciding that running was for people who eat carbohydrates. I’d hoped that even the light exercise would alter my diet-induced sour mood, but apparently burning calories wasn’t the answer I was looking for. (Please try again.) But I did love the full-ish moon, and that made me think even more about the mythological and mysterious. Mostly, I was focused on a line from the book I read this afternoon that said, “You cannot be a hero unless you are prepared to give up everything; there is no ascent to the heights without a prior decent into darkness, no new life without some form of death.”

In light of that quote, it makes sense that there’s no “life” in diet. The diet itself is the death. The new life comes later. But what grabbed me most about the quote was the part about being prepared to give up everything. Lately it feels like I HAVE given up everything, but I know that’s not true. There’s plenty more I’m holding on to. And as I walked and obsessed about the fact that I kept looking to my left instead of straight ahead, I realized that one thing I have yet to give up is my idea about how my body should be. What’s more, I haven’t given up my idea about how my life should be.

But I think the myths would encourage me to do that. All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown. Indiana Jones stepped out onto a bridge he couldn’t see. Jonah gave himself up to the belly of the whale. Jesus said, “Not my will, but yours be done.” Call it a dissolution if you want, but I think dissolution is a lot like resignation, and there’s usually not a lot of hope in that. Surrender, on the other hand, is full of hope. What’s more, it’s full of faith. It’s trusting that the bridge is there even when you can’t see it, or knowing that after three days in the belly of the whale or even the grave, you’ll rise again.

So not only am I working on accepting the facts of life–like the fact that it takes more than five days to lose fifteen pounds–but I’m also working on giving up control and surrendering to the unknown, letting go of my old life and letting the great mystery of life have me. All the while I continue to hope, dreaming of the very best life has to offer, trusting that even a twisted tree grows strong and tall, worthy of its place on a planet such as this one.