When’s the last time you looked at yourself naked in front of a mirror, I mean, really looked at yourself. If you try it someday you’ll be surprised to find that all bodies tell a story.
My body tells of at least two stories, unfurled here on cyberspace by the unforgiving light of a vanity mirror.
The first is a tale of caution, the folly of linguistic slip-ups.
When my Mother moved to the States, her English was patchy at best. Though youngster Christopher was destined to become an English major at prestigious UCLA (Harvard West), he still took his cue from Mama bear.
When I was 5 or 6 years old, I came down with a case of the chicken-pox. The first thing White-American parents will tell their kids is, “Don’t you dare scratch those itchy pox, or else you’re going to get a scar!”
Mama bear promised that I would get a “star”. Mind you, in the cutthroat world of Fairmont Private Kindergarten, star-collecting was not for the faint of heart. Only the strong get to fifty, and on this day, youngster Christopher thought he’d cut a corner by scratching his way to victory.
Instead, youngster Christopher grew up to be a scarred up naked 27-year old Christopher, with “stars” above my chest and forehead.
The second story is a similar tale of caution, moreso of woe. Where hast the supple vigor of youth faded? When did the chiseled bronze become replaced by this doughy, pale ball of yeast?
P90X, I sing to you, oh Muse…bring me back to my former glory.