On Bodies (cont.)

It's been a long time I've been in this body, with all its idiosyncratic intricacies. I've accepted the fact my immune system is weak, that my metabolic rate is exceptionally high and that my muscles will probably never get me a job as an underwear model (but I can still admire those kinds of boys, can't I?). I've finally learned how to eat healthily, how to sleep regularly and how to listen to my body's rhythms and keep myself from overrunning it with too much business. I've finally learned how to dress myself myself and take pride in the way I keep myself preened and coiffed.

Really, my body isn't all as awful as I sometimes make it out to be. I'm always fascinated at how quickly my blood coagulates after slicing my thumb when peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner; at how the wound heals and becomes a scar, a seam of flesh, raised and stronger than before. I revel in the glory of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell. I've always recovered from tough bouts of illness, maybe not totally unscathed, but still, my white blood cells always seem to win out over the onslaught of virus and bacteria. I survived childhood without a broken bone, but I believe my bones would have healed themselves, too, had the need presented itself.

Bodies are a wonder. Even mine.

It took a funeral to remind me: I'll be happy to keep it as long as I can.