
It was a humid July afternoon. I worked up the nerve to rip my shirt off at a neighborhood barbecue. You know the scene: cheap folding chairs, sticky red popsicles, dogs weaving between legs. I was 12, maybe 13, in that half-kid, half-question mark stage where you start to care about everything and understand almost none of it.
As I sat there roasting like a rotisserie chicken, some kid walked by, gave me a once-over, and said loud enough for everyone to hear,
“Dude, you look like somebody threw chocolate chips at a stick of butter!”
Everyone laughed.
Not cruel. Just casual, neighborly demolition of a kid’s self-esteem.
I did what you are supposed to do.
Laughed along.
Pretended it was no big deal.
Put my shirt back on “because I was cold,” despite the fact it was 90 degrees.
I did not take it off again for a long time. I don’t remember exactly how long. Years, probably.
But I do remember this: