Out of the Cave

Impending doom accompanied every birthday of my childhood. A birthday meant an annual checkup; an annual checkup meant a visit to the pediatrician. I never minded shots, I wasn’t disturbed by blood, and the poking and prodding protocols didn’t bother me. But for every year that I can remember, the cold, black scale sent a paralyzing sense of shame through me, upsetting my otherwise undisturbed youthfulness by forcing a harsh confrontation with the reality of my physical self.