Why I Look Like a Bum

Blood-shot eyes, a three day beard, ill-fitting clothes, lying around doing nothing, scraggly hair, and the overall appearance of death.

No matter what any of you think, I’m not really a homeless person.

There’s a reason for my present state of unpresentableness. It’s not because I have succumbed to the now fading fashion of looking completely disgusting, but rather because I now have an excuse for it. Maybe every male character at one time or another just needs an excuse not to worry about shaving and making himself look handsomish. Of course, the same might be true for girls (most of the time I shun away from using the word ‘female.’ Apparently it makes people feel like I’m comparing them to cattle. Definitely not my intention.) The point is that this week I actually have had a good reason not to shave or care much for my appearance. Or at least an acceptable excuse, maybe I haven’t really had a good reason at all. However, none of you have seen me, and most likely by the time you do see me I will have resumed my reasonably tolerable level of attractiveness, so do not be dismayed.

A random thought just crossed my mind, and I must digress enough to share it. Handsome is an odd word. Where did it come from? It would seem almost a joining of two very common words: ‘hand’ and ‘some.’ I’m not sure that I like being described as a man who has some serious hand going on. Maybe the word really is quite risky, and we use it out of complete ignorance. Not that my supposition will change much. I just thought it was a random thought.

This actually brings up another random thought. Is the measure of how much someone loves you is if they still want to be around you when you stop taking care of your appearance? I would imagine that would be a great trial to go through, being used to see someone looking like a queen or like a king and then seeing them as a bum. Like me! Would you still love me?

Enough digressions and random statements. Now must come the reason for why I currently look like a bum. There are not many reasons that are considered adequate in our society for a goatee, let alone a full beard, and heaven forbid you should look like a mountain man. One could be just as sure to have as many comments about the sanctity of shaving as they would the importance of marriage. It’s kind of a silly society that places as much emphasis on the state of your facial hair as on your marital status. I love exaggeration.

Perhaps the one thing that is considered a slightly adequate excuse for facial hair and hobo appearance is that of illness. Yes, this past weekend has been a time of serious sickness. My personal symptoms were tiredness and vague annoyance at having my temperature taken ten times in one day. Apart from the humor of seeing my parents much more alarmed than I was about the high temperature of my disease, I also enjoyed (in my moments of clear thinking) the irony of instead of being stuck with cupid’s arrows on Valentine’s day, I was being attacked by a thermometer. It was at the time vaguely annoying, but after the laughs that are normal for when sickness starts doing odd things with your body functions (such as sight), I realized that it was quite humorous, and in the odd chance that out of the someones that I know, if any of them were to result in a more serious relationship, it would make an interesting story for later valentine days. Of course, maybe girls don’t find sickness stories as interesting as guys do. Maybe they find guys interesting, though, so I might have a chance.

It’s been an interesting weekend, though. My whole house-family (those still living at home) I’ve learned more about how each of my parents respond to sickness than I ever thought I’d know. For instance, my mom believes in getting better, and then as soon as is possible returning to the various tasks of motherhood. She was the one who nursed my father and I during the more intense parts of our flu tragedies, and still continues to nurse us as we go through the final stages of recovery. My mother is the most amazing nurse in the world, the most kind, hard working, and charitable one any infirm could wish for. My father is the undefeatable sort, not stopping unless the illness is of such a character that anyone else would lie on a couch, covered in blankets, only making himself known through groans and requests for aid. My father, however, is the sort as to keep moving and working (sometimes even on construction projects) until his body will simply not allow him to move. Then he spends his time studying.

People’s reaction to sickness is varied. Really, though, this has become a long blog just to explain the fact that I look horrible. It seems that rambling is my way of life. Well, if you didn’t enjoy it, it’s your own stinkin’ fault. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Though, that might be because I now have brain damage due to a prolonged fever. (Not seriously, please don’t ask) Maybe that’s why I’m having such random thoughts.