Hello Friends.
I love swimmin'. Having Dr. Jon work at
the nearby university means that I, as his partner, get this little
card that gives me access to the two (2!) pools on campus for
swimmin'. Having no job and cool trunks with blue flowers on them
means I go swimmin' nearly every day and while I'm no Phelps, I love
paddling along in the slow lane and pretending I live underwater
(always a mermaid, never a mer, amirite ladies?). Considering how
much I love undersea adventure, it's appalling to me that I once put
my 12 year old foot down and refused a school trip to the pool.
Oh the mishegoss of the
elementary school swimming trip! Let's take a bunch of preteens
steeped in self-consciousness and make them wear not a lot of clothes
for a few hours. When I heard the trip was scheduled, I got nervous
and crampy and told my mother I absolutely would not be attending
this wet excuse for an excursion. Unimpressed, she asked me why I
thought I could simply opt-out of this activity. "You know,"
I whined, exasperated. "Because of my chest! Everyone's
gonna make fun of me."
I was born with this thing called
Pectus excavatum, otherwise known as funnel chest. Google image the
term at your own risk (you're gonna see some bewb), and if you do,
know that mine is not as severe as a lot of the examples. Basically,
if I'm lying down topless (you've done a great job--hey-o!)
you could place an orange, or a softball, or a bath poof, or a
reasonable portion of raisins, or a ramekin of gravy, in a kind of
vacancy between my pectoral muscles. It's my understanding that this
is fairly common among white men (that, and our tendency to earn
higher salaries for doing the same job), one in four-hundred or
something are born with it.
I couldn't tell you what got into my
dumb sixth-grader head before that field trip because I don't recall
ever being teased about my chest by anyone. And I'm not being
rose-coloured glasses about it, I honestly don't think anybody ever,
ever made fun of me for it. I remember people saying to me, "What's
with your chest?" And me saying, "It just goes like that, I
guess." And them saying, "Oh." That was it, I was
never mocked about it, at least not to my (longish) face. Anyway, Mom
said I could skip the trip "if I really wanted to", but she
"didn't think [I] cared so much about what people think."
She reminded me how much I loved swimmin'. How, if I chose not to
swim, I'd still have to go to the pool, but be that guy on the
sidelines, fully clothed, watching everyone else have fun. How I'd
likely look back on this experience and be disappointed in myself.
She won me over with that last bit, so I went on the trip, splashed
around with my classmates, not one of whom noticed or cared about
Pectus excavatum. Of course she was right, my 12 year old self had a
great time, and now I don't spend a minute thinking about how my
chest looks when I have my shirt off. My 29 year old self worries
about my gut when I have my shirt off.
Dream: Enough with this stupid body
shit.
Goal: Achievable? I really hope so. I'm
a smart man who's healthy and happy, who doesn't judge other people
for their weird bodies so what's my issue here? I'll bet this affects
more than one in four-hundred.
Plan: Put things into perspective.
Not to generalize with wild abandon,
but did you hear about the spoiled, vain girl who gets Botox
injections every six weeks? Or the juicehead guy that caps his
workouts with a visit to the tanning booth? The thing about those
people, whether you see them on television or know them personally,
it's not like that single procedure (be it Botox, tanning,
highlights, facials, etc) takes them from drab to fab. Dr. Jon and I
watch this show called Princess where young women spend their
parents' money recklessly on clothes and shoes and a lot of them get
Botox injections. Like young women! And I'm not sure what good it
does when they're so otherwise unappealing. It's not as if someone is
saying, "You know, I really don't like how Laura has wracked up
$50 000 in consumer debt and a selfish brat, but damn if she doesn't
have the smoothest forehead. I'm going to marry her for that sleek
terrain." My point is, you can pretty up the package all you
want, nobody wants to hang out with the human equivalent of a
dumpster fire.
Secondly, that physical thing you're
really worried about? Nobody else notices/gives a shit. I knew this
incredibly handsome man in university that we'll call Dave. Dave and
I didn't have classes together every semester, so we often wouldn't
see each other for weeks, even months at a time. Anyway, Handsome
Dave approached me excitedly one day and did a kind of twirl around
and said, "Notice anything different?" I didn't, he looked
as good as ever. He twirled and asked again and I shook my head,
honestly flummoxed. And he said, "My birthmark! It's gone!"
Apparently Dave was born with one of those wine-stain type birthmarks
on the back and side of his neck. I had never, ever noticed this, and
I'd snuck my share of glances at Handsome Dave. He seemed really
irritated. "Come on! You remember! Ugh, it was the ugliest
thing. And now it's gone!" I was happy for him, I guess, but I
couldn't help but wonder if it was something only Dave noticed or
cared about. If the cosmetic alteration made a difference to anyone
but him.
Finally, I would never put anybody
else's body through the same judgemental scrutiny I give my own. I
think about my big tummy, fleshy thighs, patchy back skin, and how
much worry they cause me on certain slow news days, and yet I don't
think about the same traits in anyone I know, even though they must
have them too! I'm not explaining myself well. If I really think
about it, I'm certain there are people I know with the same tummy,
thighs, skin as me, even Pectus excavatum, and yet I've never noticed
those traits in them. Never judged them for something so arbitrary.
So why am I subject to my own special scrutiny? I guess it comes down
to reverse narcissism, which is ostensibly narcissism anyway. Either
way, most of us come upon our reflections in a pool and are
mesmerized by our beauty or our perceived flaws. Well I'm through
with that, at least until the next slow news day. I'm gonna use my
pools for swimmin'.
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