Are you sick of your body?
No, not the size or shape of it, but the mere fact that you have one.
I'm sick of mine. It makes all sorts of stupid demands. It wants to be fed, slept, toiletted and bathed. It gets headaches and veruccas and fibroids and pimples. It has bad eyesight, arthritis and either diarrhoea or constipation, inexplicably and as the mood takes it. Its feet hurt at the end of the day. It wakes up crabby for no reason at all. It wants to drink then two hours later wants to pee. It rejects things that are for its own good, like exercise and meditation, and embraces what's bad for it, couch-potating and chocolate fudge pudding. It's a tyrant, it's like flatting with a whiny old lady, a mullet-headed slob and a demanding toddler. I have conversations with my body, thusly:
Body: I really need to get some sleep. I am going to sleep now!
Me: Oh come on! There's only ten minutes of the movie to go.
Body: ZZZZ
Me: You're hungry again? You only ate an hour ago.
Body: Yeah, well, that was only a snack, dude. I'm ready for three beers and a Big Mac now.
Me: Why didn't you go before we came out?
Body: I didn't need to go then.
Sigh. One day I will be pure spirit, and will float free of my body in sheer and utter bliss. Until then, I and my body are yoked together like the Odd Couple, two antagonists in an increasingly tetchy partnership.
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