New system

For years and years I carried calluses and scars and scrapes and scabs as physical badges of office--my tuba chops, my hiker legs, my waiter hands. And when there weren't marks, there were muscles: the defined forearms, unusually large ribcage, bizarre lip muscles. And now, now there are none. After the swelling abated, after the wrappings came off, after I hit bottom, there was nothing; stripped to the bone, to be melodramatic about it. Now, the defining marks, the characteristics that shaped who I was, the physicality shaped by who I was, are gone. The funky muscle from tapping my toes inside my shoes, the strangely defined tibialis anterior, the rock-hard diaphragm under ill-defined abdominals, fingers that could dance over tuba keys, the ambidexterous lips and tongue have been wiped clean by asphalt and malnourishment.
Now there are no defined muscles, and the painfully worming veins are receeding. Now I have angry pink scars: starburst around the orgin of my right deltoid, something near to a swoosh mark on the outside of my right elbow (already did it, thanks), uneasy skid marks on the inside of either elbow and along each wrist, a small nova on the back of my left hand, an angry and upraised line down the back of my ring finger, a deep mezzaluna chunk crushed from my left pinkie finger, the cheshire-cat smile on the right side of my waist, the cell-phone-shaped patch of skin that rubbed off my right hip, little novae on either knee, and a line shooting down my right shin.
Who knows what happened to the insides as I hit the 40 kilo line.

I miss running and jogging, but yesterday I carried my tuba and a similarly-heavy bag up the four long flights of stairs to my room, so that's an improvement. And that's the regret I allow myself.

What I have instead are beacons for curious little fingers. Students--mine or otherwise--are fascinated by the whitish skin, blond hair, and especially by the bright pink scars. Even more so by the scabs, but here's hoping those stay at a minimum.
What I have, if I allow it, are beacons that draw curious students and open up rudimentary conversations. And even if I don't have the muscles to show that I'm other than a skinny white teacher, I have the memories, and the hope to one day be such again, and in the meantime, I have a crowd of people trying to figure out who I am, where I've been, and what I'm about, and it's my job to foster that.

Widdershins sort of approach, but I'll call it a win.