Every day, for the last 43 years and 214 days I have had to see your face in the mirror and hate your imperfections, your little acne, the profound dark circles under your eyes and that fat that seems visible only to you. I can feel your heartbeat while your eyes check the number on the scale every morning, eager to see if you are more lovable today because the number went down. I pee, poo and sweat with you, I know your smell, and I enjoy when you fart and put your nose under the covers to get a real sense of how disgusting you are. I really like that about us. The fact that we can share that moment and feel good about you, about us. The smell of what should be expelled and rejected from your body is what brings us together. It is an authentic moment of intimacy and I would really miss it if one day your shit started smelling like flowers.
I was going to talk about how pretty you are under all that make up that you learned to put on so majestically, that everybody thinks that you are actually pretty. I was going to say how proud I am of your courage, but I have seen you doubt so many times that I know that your courage is a lack of options and not a choice. I was going to write about the amazing mother that you are, but I remembered that now and then your children act up and remind you that maybe you are not doing a good job; that they are going to be fucked up somehow, and it’s going to be your fault. Instead, I decided to talk about your farts and how much I like their smell. I love that you embrace all that is rejected, ignored, repelled, excluded about you. Your farts, your ideas, your beliefs. You are your own admirer; the only person who has been able to keep up with you since you were born is you. I really admire that regardless of difficulties and sometimes the immense desire to just end it all, you still keep going, carrying yourself around, sometimes like a corps sometimes like a treasure, but always there. I’m happy you didn’t give up on us. I can see a bright future and lots of hope in our relationship. Never stop smelling your farts. Never stop embracing your shit.
Your Secret Admirer
Photo cred. Ronnie Khalil