Every programmer has some experience with bodily abuse.
Sooner or later, all of us do things to ourselves we wouldn't admit
to Mom. Most of the time we say we're provoked by circumstances:
Whether it's the representative from your client's company -- a not
pleasant man who looks a lot like Herman Munster, breathing heavily
on your neck -- or some towering, unstoppable endorphine rush that
threatens to rip your medulla out of its socket if you don't code
up that monstro algorithm RIGHT NOW and forget about your wedding.
We generally attribute our protracted binges to some external
force.
This attitude bespeaks a hideous wrong-headedness among
programmers. We seem to get some masochistic pleasure out of
responding to pressure by sitting in front of our machines until
our fingernails are too long to type. Our eyes get varicose veins.
We run fingers through our hair until we get split ends. We drool.
Why?
Because, the deluded among us would answer, we have to. Some
specter is chaining us to our chairs, making strangers of our
families, removing us from the throb of humanity. It's not a
pretty job, we sigh nobly, but someone has to do it. This is, as
my sister used to say, pompous fudge-cakes. We do it because we
like it.
In view of this, I submit a philosophy of life which has
served me well for the past couple of years. I call it Metabolic
Fascism.
There are several basic tenets to this philosophy, but one
provides the foundation for the rest: You Are At War With Your
Body.
Picture a table. A lobbyist for your brain sits on one side,
a lobbyist for your body on the other. They are pushing their
respective interests as you go through your life. In a democratic
regime, one might overhear something like this during a normal day:
Body: Nothing like a good, hearty breakfast to kick-start the
day.
Brain: Yeah... I feel some serious creativity coming on. It's
gonna be a banner day for original thought. Can we
arrange a little rush from a relevant gland to start
things off?
Body: Why, sure. [Drains a mug of java] There we go.
Brain: Thanks.
[Some eight hours later.]
Body: Okay, it's about time to wind things down.
Brain: But...
Body: C'mon, it'll be better in the morning if we quit now.
Brain: Aw, okay.
[After some interval, sleep, then repeat cycle.]
Now, this has its obvious advantages. Brain and body maintain
a working camaraderie, the cycle of ups and downs is never too
extreme or debilitating, and the productivity of the two working in
tandem is fairly consistent and predictable.
On the other hand, come the day when Herman Munster is
breathing down your neck, you might have to trash that comfy little
system for something a little more, well, authoritarian. My
solution is simple: Metabolic fascism. Not when you have to crank
it out, but all the time. To wit:
Body: Not coffee AGAIN.
Brain: You don't want it, throw it up. But don't bother me.
Have some dessert.
Body: Lucky Strikes a la carte. Delectable. My lungs look
like Firestones.
Brain: Listen. I'm on the verge of a universe-tilting
breakthrough. I don't need your sniveling.
Body: Are we gonna get some sleep this week?
Brain: Yeah, yeah.
[Some 14 hours later.]
Body: Look, man, I'm gonna die here. I wanna go to bed.
Brain: SILENCE!
[Rains vicious blows upon the Body Lobbyist until he sinks beneath
the table, a simpering lump of protoplasm.]
Philistine.
[Some 10 hours later, the Body Lobbyist has risen from beneath the
table, wearing full body armor and a catcher's mask.]
Body: Sleep. Now.
[The Brain lobbyist produces a dreadnought Louisville Slugger,
festooned with nails, and clubs the Body Lobbyist senseless.]
Brain: Where was I?
[Some eight hours later, the Body Lobbyist rises and leaves the
room. The Brain Lobbyist, deep in some amphetamine-induced trance,
fails to notice. Several minutes later the Body Lobbyist
re-enters, carrying a bazooka. He liberally distributes the Brain
Lobbyist about the room.]
Body: Sleep. Now.
[Perhaps 20 hours later, another Brain Lobbyist enters the room.
Repeat cycle.]
There are tradeoffs to this methodology, sure. But the
advantages are overwhelming.
First, it's more honest. After all, the first time a deadline
or a good idea rolls around, you're gonna shaft your body anyway,
right? Why not accustom yourself to those inevitable caffeine
fests before they descend on your unsuspecting, pampered
physiognomy?
Second, there is no better way to accumulate a comprehensive,
detailed knowledge of one's body than by abusing it regularly.
Whereas most humans can only recognize vague, ambiguous bodily
states and apply almost meaningless words like "good," "bad,"
"tired" and "rested" to the way they feel, a metabolic fascist
becomes sensitive to the most subtle changes in his system. He
learns to check his pulse by noting the frequency of the shaking in
his hands. He learns to check his blood pressure by gauging the
accuracy with which he hits the reboot switch.
To a metabolic fascist, the body is a finely-tuned machine
operating somewhere past the ragged edge. One pays much more
attention to an engine about to explode than to one that is idling,
and a metabolic fascist knows his body to a degree of detail that,
among other humans, only long-distance runners and new mothers
achieve.
(Not to mention the fact that this mode of living produces a
certain manic look about the eyes that is useful for everything
from terrifying muggers to staring down that fossilized waitress
who never, ever, takes back a cheeseburger because it's too well-
done.)
The peripheral benefits are legion. When was the last time
you really wondered what day it was? A genuine
scratch-your-head-and-call-up-Sidekick kind of puzzlement? When
was the last time you were truly surprised that the sun decided to
rise? When was the last time you stared, entranced, as the sort
routine you just wrote turned into little green soldiers that
danced across your screen? To the metabolic fascist, life once
more becomes that fascinating, unpredictable thing most humans
never see after they graduate from diapers.