I wonder if Lazarus felt like this?

The consensus among my family members when I was growing up was that I did not have stamina. That view of me--inherited in part from (not entirely inaccurate) the family view of my father, was deeply internalized. I self-fulfilled the prophecy like nobody's business, and by my twenties it was simply true. It was a belief held by everyone from my butch buddies, to the girls I pursued, to co-workers, supervisors, servers at restaurants I frequented...

The year I turned 30, I say, if you ask me at the right time, perhaps with a glass of wine in my hand, I died. What I mean, of course, is that so many of my ideas about myself and the people in my life changed so rapidly that (a la Derek Parfit's later selves) the continuity between the before and after is difficult to come by. (Actually, it might be technically true that I died as well; my vasovagal reaction kicked in very, very briefly during a terrible flu the week before my 30th birthday, though I don't think I made it to asystole. But that is another post.) I recognize the me of the earlier years, but as an old acquaintance, not as myself. I, for example, could kick that girl's ass. I guess it toughens you a bit, coming back from the dead.

I made two small resolutions for the new year. The first was to cut red meat out of my diet - as part of a larger effort for healthier living, but this is the one absolute taboo with which I'm starting. (Unintended positive consequence, btw: no pizza intake. If it ain't pepperoni, what's the point?) The other is private, related to maintaining my mental health.

I made it through January without breaking a sweat. So, universe, bring on everything you've got in the next 11 months. I can take it. I've been waiting for this for years...