CONTEMPLATING MY NAVEL

Two years ago I had appendicitis, and like a typical overconfident self-rugged male, I waited three days before heading to the emergency room at five in the morning. By which time the damned thing had ruptured and spewed. Okay, no problem, we'll just open you up, remove the little bugger and whatever that crud is, and pump you full of medications to deal with the nasty little micro-organisms that are now thriving within.

A miracle of modern medicine.

Science skeptics, like the anti-vaxxers and natural healing crowd, would have recommended ginger-cayenne-parsley tea, and some marijuana. Oh how sad, the poor bastard died of elevated evil humours and bad karma. Kittens. There's nothing that we could do.

The miracle of modern medicine is that I cannot see the scar. But I can feel it, and I am very conscious of the fact that I have an ugly navel. Because that's where they went in.

I am now more aware than ever before of navel discrimination, especially in the arts. All those beautiful navels in paintings, line drawings, etchings, watercolours, and lovingly tantalizing manga illustrations. Perfect little inverted question marks. Cute little pits.
Harmoniously shaped indentations. A fruit-like groove.

Dang this thing feels unattractive. Admittedly, not as repulsive as it could have been if I had had a belly button piercing and ring -- the surgeon would've ended up with metal fragments and a helluva mess, and would have had to use an industrial vacuum and a magnet on a stick to clean it all up -- but a splendid example of navel architecture it isn't.


"You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

"Errm, on second thought ... "


Let's just pretend that I'm an amphibian.
Or a Reptilian-American, okay?
Nothing to see here.



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