I used to watch this show, My 600 Pound Life
It was about morbidly obese people, how they had bariatric surgery to lose weight, what happened to them afterward.
There was a woman who was so overweight she couldn’t walk. She had to ride around in one of those scooters. The show followed her around the grocery store as random people told her she was disgusting.
Finally she had a gastric bypass. The weight fell off. After a few years, she was down to 150 pounds.
She had a whole new life. She was coaching little league, making friends, joining book clubs, catching up on all the socializing she had missed out on for decades.
Before, she was housebound. After, she could barely stay indoors for a few hours.
Her husband had been with her through everything: The weight, then its disappearance. He could tell she still carried around the old person she was.
“She still turns sideways when she walks through doors,” he said.
In November I moved to Seattle. My hometown, my home country, my first time living there since 2005.
There were no logical reasons for me to do this, only personal ones. Friends. Family. A general restlessness I can never find a noun for.
I always agonize over these Big Life Decisions, always get regretful and nostalgic immediately after making them.
Then, slowly, I acclimate. Like getting over a breakup or leaving a job, eventually I get used to the new normal I have chosen. I stop weighing it against the one I have left.
Everyone knows Christian Doppler was the guy who discovered the Doppler Effect, that thing where soundwaves bunch up when they come from a moving object, the eeeeEEEEEoooo you hear when an ambulance goes by.
What I didn’t know until recently was that Doppler discovered his effect before anyone had ever heard it. It was 1842, nothing had ever gone 50 miles an hour, no one could stand there to notice the change in pitch.
Doppler, through sheer intelligence, described something that the world eventually proved real.
In my head, this is how smart people, real live adults, make decisions. You think and you study and you make blueprints for the future and then when it happens you’ve already explained it.
In 1781, after they discovered Uranus, astronomers got more accurate predictions for the rest of the solar system. The new planet’s gravity pulled everything in its direction. Astronomers could stare up into the sky and know, months in advance, where they would find Mars and Mercury and Venus.
Or at least, they should have. Once they started looking, they realized that all the planets were just a tiny bit off where they should be.
The only thing that could explain it was yet another planet, even farther out.
For years, scientists back-calculated where, and how big, the new planet should be. When they were finished, they pointed their telescopes where the calculations told them and there it was. They called it Neptune.
I think I find these stories so appealing because they imply that there’s something objective about the world, discoverable, that all I have to do is think hard enough, crunch all the numbers, and the answer will be obvious.
But of course that’s not true. No matter how hard you look into the future, you still bring yourself into it with you.
These are all random photos of Berlin I took over the years.
Out a bus window, on a morning jog, biking home. Dismount, snap, continue.
I miss it already. It is big and empty and strange and sad, full now with my own history and even fuller with its own.
My new life, the new normal I’ve chosen, isn’t waiting to be discovered, it’s something I’ll have to invent.
I can already feel myself adjusting, old memories getting taped over with new habits, concerns, people.
Everything I left here becoming, eventually, just one of the ways I still turn sideways.