brni (brni) wrote,
brni
brni

shower musings

I have two towels that I consider "mine." The others are the household towels - these two are the ones that I tend toward. They are not bath towels. They are beach towels, a bit longer than the average bath towel. Because I'm not a small person. I am just a touch above six foot tall, and of variable weight, always over 200 pounds. And though I've changed my shape somewhat through karate and judo and sword fighting, I have yet to find the path to my college weight. So I like a towel that reflects that, that can wrap and fasten properly around the waist, a towel that I can use to dry my back without excessive contortionism.

These towels are:

1) Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon courtesy of K-Mart
2) Betty Boop, courtesy of an awful souvenir shoppe in Las Vegas

There is another towel, a New Kids on the Block towel, which I got on a cross country road trip many years ago, because I was convinced that displaying a truly awful boy band towel in camp ground rest rooms across middle america was, if not wise, at least necessary. It was also good for karate school locker rooms.

I'm not terribly worried about being called out for proudly displaying awful boy band towels in places that frown on such things. I will not be killed by some asshole so terrified by his own urges that he feels the need to destroy anything that might remind him of them. I'm pretty convinced that that is not how I will die. Nor will I be killed in a car accident, or a plane crash, or have a sudden fatal heart attack. I will not be killed by a jealous lover, or a lover's jealous spouse. I will not be electrocuted while trying to rig up high voltage DC fuse boxes.

My gut tells me that it'll be cancer.

I don't know if it'll be when I'm 80 or 90, or in the next few years. But that's my fear. That I'll die, helpless and suffocating on fluids that my own body makes, while it devours itself.

My grandmother died of cancer when I was young. We visited her in Yugoslavia before she died. She was bedridden at the time. The whole house reeked of rot, and of chemicals, and of sickly sweet perfume. I was maybe ten years old. I couldn't bring myself to go into the room from which that odor seeped. I waited in the living room, and it was all I could do not to flee to the safety of the streets of Novi Sad. I never saw her or spoke to her again.

It was not the last time my courage has failed me in these situations.
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