One of my favorite organs is my skin. Flabby, blotched and stitched as it is, I’d know it anywhere. It may be a mess but it’s my mess. When it has had enough it knows when to slough off and replenish. Even in its withered state it manages to envelop my whole body twisting and bending at elbow and knee on demand. I wouldn’t have it otherwise. We leave other organs alone to assume their shape for a lifetime but skin is obligated to stretch beyond its infantile imaginings. It may only be skin-deep but that’s deep enough.
My only incisions both occurred on my left arm and one resulted in a needless ten inch scar compliments of a knife-happy surgeon looking for a pinched nerve that never was. Sorry, skin, I hope never to put you under the knife again.
I try not to ask too much of my skin at this point. I’m not a hand-wringer. I don’t crack my knuckles or crease my brow any more than I’m aware of. I can only hope smiles and wonderment are less taxing than frowns and sneers. I’ll do my best to keep my face from misbehaving. Just to demonstrate that I have my skin in the game I can safely say now that I shall never enter a monastery and self-flagellate nor will I tattoo myself into a billboard however noble or endearing the message. My skin deserves better.