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Meat Sack

In today’s #RandyTales, our hero takes pride in his meat sack…

Do you remember the movie “Major League”? I am by no stretch of the imagination a sportsball fan, or even movies based on sportsballs. But I do remember lots about that movie. The one scene that stands out – aside from the Allstate guy saying “Fuck you Jobu, I do it myself” – was the locker room scene where the new lady boss comes in and everyone starts diving to cover themselves… except the grumpy old coach who stood defiantly and buck ass naked.

I have never had what could be referred to as a “beautiful” body. I have always been a little over weight, a little hairy in odd places, nothing resembling perfect skin, scars that I have forgotten how I even got them, broken teeth, misaligned bones, Shrek looking feet, and other signs that this meat sack was not for mass production, or for mass consumption. Definitely not underwear model material. And I was for many years extremely self conscious about it.

Being uncomfortable in one’s skin makes it damn near impossible to be comfortable in one’s head – especially a head as scary as mine. And for many, many years, that uncomfortable feeling kept me from being happy anywhere. I was conditionally told I was attractive. Maybe if I lost a little weight… maybe if I cut my hair… maybe if I wore something more designed for my body shape… maybe if you looked more like this person. I defined myself by others’ perceptions of me, rather than my own perceptions… just like a judged my own self worth by what others gave to me – scraps of attention, as it were.

And one day – not too many years ago – I looked in the mirror. It was when I had gotten out of the hospital. I had lost close to 70lbs. I was 190lbs – a weight I hadn’t been since sometime in high school. I didn’t look well, which is because I wasn’t. I spent two weeks in the hospital, had a tumor and a section of my large intestine removed, and had been on a liquid diet. But I looked beyond that for maybe the first time in my life. Past my own insecurities and rationalizations. I really looked at myself – this meat sack I had spent so much time abusing… because I wasn’t happy with anything. And yet it was still working. When I needed it to be the strongest, it was.

That fresh scar across my belly button is where they took my tumor out. That other scar from where they removed my burst appendix. That mark was from the chicken pox when I was 12. Those are the stretch marks from growing too fast through puberty. A barely visible mark showed where I was stabbed. A few more grays and whites in my long hair and beard, but not that many. I still look a lot like I did as a teenager. Every line and wrinkle a sign that I have been through shit that would have crumpled or ended another. And I am still standing.

And in those moments, I became the grumpy old coach from “Major League” and my own flawed perceptions became the boss lady. I am too damn old and have been through too damn much to give a shit what others think of my body. And I’m not going to hide it anymore. For all the abuse heaped on my body, it is still operating within normal parameters. And I do look damn good – not perfect, but not bad.

I refuse to be ashamed of my body. Sure, I am still more comfortable in a baggy shirt or short skirt – but less and less. I have been rocking the dad bod since way before I became a dad. My belly is still a bit big, but this chaos engine needs a big fuel tank. The scars are badges of honor. Grey & white hairs signs that I am a survivor. And now I am taking better care of my body to make sure I’ll be around for that extra 39 years I promised to my Art Director.

I may never be an underwear model – but if you’re distracted by my body, you’re missing out on what’s between my ears and coming out of my mouth. And those make me a supermodel of intelligence and wit.

And that makes me a sexy mother fucker!