I dream dreams, but they often crash up against unexpected realities. In our world of “lookism,” where pleasing appearance is judged necessary, we tend to see people in terms of their outer shell. Even weatherpersons must be stunning with big hair.
I, too yearn for the enviable appearance of a Greek Adonis. This pursuit of vain dreams leads me to working out at the gym each week. I pump up my abs, biceps, quads, glutes, and cardio muscles to Greek proportions. How has the Adonis struggle been going? Have the lifts, curls, and presses brought me the appearance I’d hoped to achieve?
Almost. But then suddenly the gym work became irrelevant. Of the 640 muscles in my body, 639 were progressing nicely: One was not! That one offending muscle bit me and quickly superseded all the others. It was the sphincter muscle – the very last muscle I want to think about or mention to you. That is because, I am a refined guy. I read poetry or sip grand cru wine. I think about chamber music – not sphincters.
But that little puppy just would not be denied. A slight imperfection, a tiny fissure in my case, and that muscle made every minute a living hell. A faulty sphincter does not whisper discomfort – it screams alarm like a fire truck! It demands top billing over every other concern in your life. Finally, I came to the disgusting truth; nobody can endure that kind of pain. Fortunately, I chose surgery, and the problem immediately disappeared.
Moving quickly on and upward, was there any meaning to this vulgar nightmare?
Yes. To me, it is the glaring irony between the heroic “Adonis wannabe” versus who we really are.
MY APPEARANCE SITS ON A FRAGILE BOTTOM
My whole vain appearance sits on (if I may say) fragile bottom. So it is not reassuring that one single muscle can obliterate a lifetime of self-image dreams.
HOW DO THEY COPE
But that is me. What about the authentic Adonis celebrities we see: World leaders, famous athletes, and yes, the gorgeous weather people? Do they too, endure unmentionable ailments? Those whose appearance dreams have come true, those who win the “Good looks lottery,” and show up on the glossy covers or prime time TV- none of them ever needed a sphincterotomy?
The crack between that unmentionable private reality and their lofty public persona must be excruciating irony. They seem to cope. I respect and admire their grace under stress. They are a comfort to the rest of us, reconciling our dreams with reality.
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