LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Weekend Beach Bum: A Few of My Favorite Things |
by Eric Morrison |
A few days ago, after spending some time on Poodle Beach, I was checking out my tan. I visit a tanning bed frequently during the fall, winter, and spring, but during the summer I tell myself that I'll hit the beach every weekend, so who needs a tanning bed? But alas, all too frequently on summer weekends in Rehoboth, I find myself sleeping late and then enjoying a leisurely brunch that keeps me from making it to the sand before early afternoon, so I don't spend much time catching rays. Then, too, my self-diagnosed ADD prevents me from sunning for more than an hour. In addition, my face burns and peels, and I end up looking more like a victim of Agent Orange than a religious sun-worshiper. Ah, the perils of maintaining the body beautiful! But while examining my melatonin status the other day, I remembered that my stomach actually retains the dark, desired hue. After lingering over my gym-worked abs for a few minutes, I noticed a physical feature that I haven't considered, much less admired, in years-my navel! I realize that your navel is not something you consider often, nor is it something you usually boast about at a cocktail party. "Tom! Put down that cosmopolitan and get over here! You have just got to see this guy's belly button!" But my obsessive-compulsive mind picked up the thought and ran with it. I began to tug at the skin on my stomach and revel in the glory of my navel. Just above it remains a small hole from which a bold gold ring used to protrude, and fledgling stubbles of dark hair trailed south. My navel is a nice-sized, suprisingly symmetrical innie, forming an intricate swirl like its own little galaxy in the center of my tummy. (Incidentally, this notorious clean freak is sad to report, I was reminded that even a little galaxy needs a thorough cleaning every now and then. I wonder if the Andromeda galaxy gets cluttered with lint? And does God use colossal Q-tips and lots of rubbing alcohol, like my mother always told me to do?) My rediscovered navel filled me with a sense of awe and respect for small things-a feeling, I must confess, I haven't harbored in quite some time. This was the very spot, I reflected, from which I was cut forever from my mother and dropped into a sometimes frightening world of personal autonomy. Had I known what I was in store for-especially living gay in a heterosexist world-would I have been kicking and screaming for different reasons than my newborn body being passed around the delivery room or my bottom being spanked? (I must have achieved some degree of maturity in the past twenty-seven years. Now I daydream about someone spanking my bottom-all the better if it's a doctor.) Anyway, I began to contemplate a few of my favorite things, and I have made a conscious decision to remember them whenever I'm feeling down. First of all, I am so blessed to have my family. My parents and brother are endlessly supportive, and I am eternally grateful. They only question my aspirations enough to make me give them a necessary second look before plunging in with both feet. They thank me for enriching their lives and tell me that they love me every time we speak. Most importantly, they show me that they respect me by accepting me unconditionally and verbally slapping some sense into my head when I need it. You really can't ask for much more than that. I am dually blessed with wonderful friends. It is true that most friends come and go, and I am grateful for many such casual cameos in my life up until this point. But there are a few friends-an invaluable handful-who stand by you through thick and thin, and for some cosmic reason, you feel the need to do the same. Sometimes, you glance through a photo album or read an inscription in a book given to you as a gift, and you realize that the greatest gift this world holds is the insurmountable power and grace of a true friendship. I am fortunate enough to awake each morning looking forward to going to work. Granted, I don't usually tap dance around the office brimming with glee (at least not until just before the whistle blows on Friday afternoon), but my co-workers are my friends and family, too, always ready to lend an ear, a few kind words of praise, or even the pencil sharpener. I think we've all made a conscious decision that if we are going to spend forty-plus hours per week looking at each other's faces, we ought to spend some time looking inside each other, too. And we usually like what we see. Some small things that make me happy are like tiny colorful sparks that dance through my senses every once in a while. Like the way my oldest niece whispers, "I love you, Uncle Eric" before I hang up the phone...the first time each summer when the rolling waves of the Atlantic ocean freeze my toes...the pungent, papery odor of a new book and the wise words I know hide inside...the inked-up, dog-eared, yellowing pages of an old book that I curl up with and rest my head upon after I can't believe it ended that way again...my favorite lines of a memorized movie that I quote over and over again...the bittersweet memories of old loves and the tender anticipation of new loves to come...the hypnotic drizzle of rain outside the window as I write these words. Do this sarcastic, sentimental writer a favor. The next time your heart has been plucked off your sleeve and trod upon, or tears well up in your eyes and it's not because a grain of sand has found its way underneath your contact lens, find a calm spot free of distraction. Clear your head. Light a candle, burn some incense, or set your childhood stuffed animal beside you. Take out a piece of paper, and write down twenty-five little things that still make you happy. Then, when you're amazed at how many you've forgotten and how much fun it is remembering, turn over the page and keep going. I guarantee that you won't be able to stop at twenty-five. If you need some inspiration to get started, just take a look at your belly button. Eric lives in Claymont, Delaware and is a frequent visitor to Rehoboth Beach. If you're the kind of person who appreciates the little things, contact him at eric.a.morrison@verizon.net. He'll get back to you as soon as he puts down the Q-tip. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 07, June 14, 2002. |