The Nipple Stigmata
These days, when people tell me I'm fat, I know they're only joking.
If you google my name, you’ll come across an old photo of me. The difference is staggering. I’m standing there, pasty white and double-chinned, smiling the awkward smile that characterizes all photos from that bleak period of my life as a private high school teacher. I’m wearing a pair of trousers that would slip off me now. The student beside me is smiling with great enthusiasm, as if to say, “Out of the two of us, I am the thinner one.”
Do you want to know my weight-loss secret? I don’t count calories. I don’t bounce up and down on a big rubber fun-ball or wear a pair of medical shoes. I haven’t cut down on beer (F that), and haven't worn my girdle for years, dear. Here’s the secret: I run. Last month I covered 220 km. Since coming to Japan I estimate that I’ve actually run 1/20th of the distance around Mother Earth.
I’m in love with almost everything about running. I love being in the vitamin-rich sunshine, and I love how the blood flowing through my veins feels like a river after the spring thaw - a roaring, heavy-metal river that flows from Mount Awesome to the Great Lake of Kick-Ass. There’s nothing like rubbing my hand up the back of my head and seeing the cool mist of sweat glinting in the sun. The lactic burn evaporates my worldly cares – or at least pushes them into the background for a while so my subconscious can reduce them to bite-sized annoyances.
There is only one thing about running that I hate: the stares of the Japanese townspeople. Everyone has to get a good look in. And these are not just passing glances. These are flat-out, open-mouthed stares – like I’m not a man out for a morning jog, but a wicked poltergeist.
Only beautiful women don’t look (thank you so much). Everyone else is a stare-much – especially when I’m wearing my “nipple stigmata” shirt. This is a white t-shirt that always chafes against my nipples, causing them to become irritated and bleed. The blood trickles down, producing an overall effect that is not unlike the stigmata (the only difference being that it comes from my nipples, and God’s grace doesn't really factor in to the picture).
Once, when I was on the final K of a 10K run, an old Japanese man was so amazed to see a foreigner wearing shorts and moving at twice the speed of “stroll” that he actually stopped in his tracks and turned to face me and frown. What bothered me is that this wasn’t even subtle. I glared at him, and he didn’t look away, which bothered me even more.
"Got a damn staring problem?" I wanted to ask, but dared not.
Instead, I stopped in the middle of the street and started doing jumping jacks. More people gathered round. This was the angriest I’ve ever been while doing jumping jacks. The old man didn’t give in, so I started jumping-jacking towards him. That’s when he shook his head as if to say, “You don’t see that every day,” and started walking away.
I told a friend about this and he said, “You’ve got to be careful.”
Oh no, don't run. You wouldn't want to alarm anyone. Once a woman screamed and ran indoors when she saw me sprinting my last hundred meters in her direction. Another time a school girl may have thought that I was pursuing her, because she was riding her bike ahead of me and her path corresponded precisely to my running route. Calm down everyone. I’m not a predator. I’m not a poltergeist. I'm not really even a rapist. I’m a just out for some exercise. Think about it for a second: would a rapist or a poltergeist be carrying an Ipod nano loaded with Mika tunes?
I don’t want to give you the impression that people think I’m non-human only when I’m jogging. A little while ago I took a break from writing this and popped over to my local bento shop to get some lunch. The shop is nearby, so I just threw on whatever clothing lay between me and the doorway.
While I was waiting for my food, an attractive young mother came in with her son and daughter. The son – about 4 or 5 years old and wearing a yellow necktie – came over and sat beside me, even though there were plenty of other seats available. After staring at me for a few seconds, he stood up on the bench and started stroking my left cheek – as if my face were a semi-precious stone. I should note that I hadn’t shaved, and I was wearing jeans and dress shoes, sans socks. Also, my fly was down. The mother, who hadn’t been paying attention until this point, turned around and gave her son an outraged scolding – like he’d picked up a dirty hypodermic needle and said, “Look mom, a popsicle.” In retrospect, I could have chosen a more opportune moment to hoist my fly.
In the end, it doesn’t matter whether you jog or not. In a foreign country, you will always be a bald freak. But why are you running? Are you trying to attract attention? Pull up your damn fly. Tonight I’ll go for a midnight jog. Maybe that way, by cloaking my body in a shroud of night, I will find sweet release.
