Lying With T-Shirts

At the cusp of the decay slope

Dear God,

Today¹ I felt a lot of shame. I was entering the garage of my partner’s home, following behind her and her kid. Groceries had been delivered while we were out and everyone grabbed a bag or a box and carried them in and upstairs.

Except me. Because I couldn’t. Because my L5-S1 disc is bulging into my spine (again) and causing tons of pain, and lifting and carrying things makes it worse. Even a stupid 12-pack of A&W Cream Soda Root Beer².

So I just shuffle behind everyone as they do their part while I contribute nothing to the functioning of the household. It’s cool — they all understand. They want me to take it easy and get better. Also it’s just some groceries, it’s nbd. But here’s the thing… I only have tight T-shirts. Not, like, super tight. But they fit well. They show off the form a bit, and it feels really good when people notice. They make me happy. Or they did. Back when I could pick up a damned 12-pack of A&W Cream Soda Root Beer.

It’s advertising an ability to manipulate my physical environment, and I’m accruing social credit for that. Except I can’t actually do that. I am less capable than my little ol’ 70-year-old mom. I am selling complete bullshit with my clothing. I shouldn’t be wearing tight T-shirts, I should be hiding in baggy clothing and maybe walking with a cane, even if I don’t need it. One’s appearance should match one’s capabilities. Otherwise I’m selling lies. I’m making promises with my appearance that I cannot fulfill.

You think someone who sees me ignore the groceries while my girlfriend is hauling them in isn’t gonna think a thing or two about me? This is the sort of thing someone should be ashamed to not help with. That’s part of the reason we have obvious markers of infirmity like canes. My appearance carries information. My outsides should reflect my insides.

I think this idea of “One’s outsides should reflect one’s insides” is deeply ingrained in humans. It’s why people who dislike themselves will cut themselves. Or get covered in tattoos. Or facial piercings, and chopped hair. It’s aligning the outer with the inner. It’s daring the rest of the world “will you still like me if you can see on the outside how I feel on the inside?”

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I’ve been like this for a few months now. I’m not sure I’ll be able to return to full activity even if this abates, because the damn disc is just weak and compromised now. Which is pretty depressing because nowadays I really like doing things with this body. This is the opposite of how I grew up.

In my childhood, and my teens, and actually most of my twenties, I was very disembodied. I hated my body. I hated being stuck inside of a body. It wasn’t just the fact that it was male. It was that it was vulgar, a physical prison. I wanted to be uploaded. I am not my body, I am an intellect. Souls make complete sense because I don’t feel like I am made of material. I am a thing tethered to the material world by this body, and I couldn’t wait to get past that.

I lived my life inside books. I lived my life inside video games. I lived my life inside music. I didn’t need my body for any of those things. I neglected it badly. And I was actually kind of proud of that. Taking care of your body was for jocks and bimbos and dumb people. Shallow people, maybe not even fully-real people.

But then I got a pretty decent body (long story, took a total change of life and years of work, but let’s skip that for today) which gave me a lot of benefits, and I really started enjoying it. It felt good to do things and to be admired. It felt extra good to pick up women and carry them places, because they really like it, which is a weird hack but hey, who am I to complain? So yeah, I bought exclusively tight T-shirts and I did a lot more physical things in the physical world. It felt a lot better than desk work. I like helping people move. And now I won’t be able to help people move anymore. :/ Or throw women onto beds.

Aging is horrific. Everything gets stripped from you, one piece at a time. And all you can do about it is write pieces about how much it sucks on the internet.

I hope I get a chance to meet you before I die for real, and we can get this whole “decaying physical body” thing worked out. Cya after the singularity.

-E

1. Originally an audio-gram to god. No longer “today” at time of publishing, or time of writing.

2. her husband’s favorite