Full Gord

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Have I mentioned before that I have three younger sisters? Well, I do, and I’m frequently asked if me and the youngest one are twins. Ok, maybe only every now and then I get asked that. But when I am, I say, ‘why yes, yes we are’ despite the seven-year age gap. Anyway, all four of us were text chatting recently about some of the…er…particularities of our shared genetics.
 And while we all have wildly different personalities and interests, we have all inherited a tendency to go completely overboard. With everything. The general life philosophy we seem to have developed is that is a little is good, a metric fuckton is infinitely better. I have been thinking a lot about the psychology behind why we do this and I’m stumped. One thing I know for sure is that this trait is for sure, 100% from my dad Gord’s DNA.
 Hence, going Full Gord is the act of going completely and utterly batshit on something to the detriment of your physical and/or mental health. It can be, and frequently is, food related, such as eating mass quantities of something. Or, it might be completely physically overdoing it. Say, going to the gym to do weight training for the first time ever and doing the same amount of weight as dudes who’ve been doing it for ages so that basically your hamstrings explode and you can’t go up or down stairs for a week.
 Or maybe you go Full Gord on a project and it gets completely out of control. Like when you think, oh hey, I should fix this tile grout but then you’re like, well, I might as well replace this broken tile. And then you end up completely renovating your kitchen and bathroom for months on end with no budget. Or, you might decide to grow a few greens and carrots one year and suddenly you’re trying to grow veggies you’ve never even eaten before with no discernible gardening skills whatsoever.
 You might also go Full Gord on the road when people are idiots so terrible, terrible things come out of your mouth.

 And so, my sisters and I were reminiscing the other day about some memorable Full Gording episodes.

My dad went Full Gord a few years ago when he not only ignored a hernia (actually, he ignored several hernias) for so long that when he finally did have surgery, he had so much extra skin that the doctor just got rid of it, but now he doesn’t have a belly button. And he was full of these giant staples when he decided to move a hot water tank. Classic Full Gord.
 It is also common to go Full Gord on music. Because hearing a song you love just once is simply not enough. Put that shit on repeat. And make sure the volume is on full blast too. I remember when I was still living at home for the first few years of University and my dad was just going into his Bee Gees phase. It took him a few years to recover from his obsession with Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, but he came back with a vengeance for Stayin’ Alive. One morning he must have played that song 78 times in a row.
 I also have a conditioned aversion to the band Silverchair (remember them?) thanks to one sister who went Full Gord on the album Neon Ballroom. I was ill. Really ill. Sicker than I had ever been with a raging sinus infection that just took over my whole body. I threw up every twenty minutes and could not control the nausea. She kept playing that damned album over and over and over and now when I hear any song from that album (which thankfully is infrequent), I feel like I’m gonna hurk.
 But Full Gord is at its peak when it comes to food. Sweets and junk food in particular, but I have been known to go Full Gord on even the most unlikely foods. It’s like we discover something we enjoy, and have to consume it to death.

Studying in particular seemed to bring on Full Gord episodes. Maybe it was a stress thing. For one term, my sister and I were obsessed with those coloured party mints. Another time, she went Full Gord on Rockets, those tiny tart Halloween candies. Only, she’s allergic to red food coloring, so she couldn’t eat the pink ones. Every time she’d come across a pink Rocket, she’d set it aside. After exams, there was a mountain of pink Rockets left over.

Back a million years ago when I still worked my corporate job, I took a special assignment for six months in Ottawa. I had my own little apartment and flew back home every second weekend. But, it was cold there. And lonely. So when my mom and godmother came to spend a few days with me, I was excited. My apartment was right near a market area with delicious specialty shops selling wondrous food I could ill afford. I mentioned there was a chocolate shop that had an amazing selection of fudge, and maybe they should check it out.
 They did check it out, and my godmother had gone Full Gord herself and picked me up four good-sized chunks of fudge in different flavours. Well, I promptly devoured them and mentioned that I had really enjoyed the vanilla caramel one. The day my visitors left, they went back to the chocolate shop and bought me the largest slab of fudge I have ever laid eyes on. It was huge; at least five pounds worth of the stuff. I gobbled it up like nobody’s business in two days flat. Only…I didn’t feel so good. Really not well at all. A few days later I went to a walk-in clinic for some bloodwork and the doctor was like ‘um…well you don’t have diabetes…yet…but you’re pancreas is extremely sluggish. Have you been eating inappropriate amounts of sugar lately’? What, me? Of course not.


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