Geese, acupuncture, martinis, reconciling with mortality

december as intended...

December is only nice to natural-born doers and lovers of the factual. I happen to be neither.

Everything’s flat. Not in the mood for Christmas or salvation. Had to undress in front of a man who isn’t my boyfriend today. A dermatologist. Felt invasive, necessary. The story behind it is a suspicious mole in the middle of my back scheduled to be removed in January ‘just in case’. To lay there in a thong, fully familiarizing yourself with your own mortality, zooming in on the inevitable. I’m twenty seven! I had one job: to be invincible! Promise that I will be known as the woman with the least appropriate underwear, the worst convictions, and maximized shareholder value. The doctor’s eyes are cold and lifeless. Minimal empathy, rigid Dutch healthcare at its finest. It’ll be a 10 minute procedure. You’ll be fine. He probably delivers way worse news every day. I wonder how often his verdicts are met with a whiny ‘Am I going to have a scar from this??’ As if aesthetics come before vitality. They do. They always have.

But then the reconciliation comes. I think life jolts you awake with a health scare to remind you wouldn’t want to be remembered for your lifelong voluntary malnutrition or the number of emails sent or the petty who-what-where’s tagged in an Instagram story. All of this, however, is exactly what flashed before my eyes. The mind is no better than a recycling bin... It’s our desire to claw out of uncoerced misery that keeps us alive, maybe.