Saturn Return, etc.

Ever hear of this astrological phenomenon?

It took an R.E.M. song for me to learn about it. And it's an interesting take. Supposedly, around the age of 28, everyone has a major shift in their lives, which corresponds to Saturn returning...somehow. The astrological component of this eludes me, so I'll leave it to the astrologers in our midst to divine meaning from it. However, separate from this component, it's an interesting thought.

I began looking back at my life, and realized that there were major life shifts that took place not every 28 years (for which, at my age, there would be only one), but every seven years. So far, at least. And this would include this year, my 49th on this plane. So let's tabulate them, shall we?

• Age 7: moved from west Littleton to Greenwood Village
• Age 14: that most momentous of events, the National Spelling Bee
• Age 21: came out (well, a process that went from 20 to 22)
• Age 28: graduated from naturopathic medical school
• Age 35: decided to begin lifting and gaining and owning my body
• Age 42: broke up with Bill
• Age 49: began the move to Palm Springs

It could be interesting to divine more of what makes these significant, and see if there are any themes that recur in these, but for now, it's neat to see these anyhow.

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Update on weight and such: I'm now comfortably above 300 and not going down for the time being. Close to 305 on high days, in fact. Clothes across the board are telling the tale. My belly peeks out beneath shirts that struggle to cover it...while they are untucked. Most of my undershirts are a total lost cause...my belly and belly button are totally visible below them. Button-down shirts show straining and threaten to show gaps between buttons. And the only two pairs of pants I'm comfortable in are a stretchy 40x30 pair of jeans that must have snuck past QC because of how loose (relatively) they are and a pair of 46es. I've outgrown all the flannel I bought last year from Eddie Bauer (2XLs all), which sucks, because they're good quality and expensive.

About those 46es: back in Russia in 1996, I went for three weeks without jacking off, and it was torture toward the end. What made me come—and come feet in the air at that—was the thought that I knew I had a gaining (or as I put it then, eating) problem when I could barely fit into my size 46 pants. Looks like I'm pretty close to that situation right now. It's wild.