I (*also) feel bad about my neck.

I recently put a book on hold at the Library with the title “I feel bad about my neck”. I haven’t gotten it yet, but it’s a collection of writings and essays by the late, great, Nora Ephron. The main draw to it was the title. It reflected a quiet thought I’ve been thinking to myself for a little while now. I, too, feel bad about my neck. Very bad, indeed.

I hate to even put it down on paper and lump myself in with all of the self-centered women who waste their time writing about their vain insecurities. There are bad things happening in the world, and I hate that I am about to waste valuable time complaining about my neck. I also hate that anyone who reads this might stare at my neck next time we’re together. See how vain I am?? I should hide these thoughts in hopes of keeping up my appearances as a woman who is deep and cares about things that are deep. The problem is, I want to write. I want to be one of those writers who can share their honest thoughts on paper without fear. So to be honest with you, I must tell you that I think about my shitty, loose, strangely wrinkled, almost-vaginal neck quite a bit.

I’m not really sure if there’s anything to be done. I can’t even pinpoint when the problem of “the neck” began. I think, as I got into my mid-thirties, a couple of things happened. First, I got into my mid-thirties. Enough said on that one. Second, I started using my cell phone (aka camera phone aka tiny pocket computer aka shiny screen of death and discontentment) a lot. Social media gave me at least one million reasons to check my phone as many times each day.

In short I think I developed a bad neck because of age and what they are now referring to as “tech neck”. I’ve been thinking about tech neck lately, especially now that I spend less time staring down at my phone screen than in years past. The social media fast has meant there is less and less to entertain me on that little screen. However, this has given me more time to read books and I fear my “tech neck” development hours have simply been replaced by a horrendous case of “book neck”.

I don’t know what Nora is going to say about her neck in that book on hold at the Library. I like her writing. I loved the witty opening up of how men and women relate in “When Harry Met Sally” and “Sleepless in Seattle”. I enjoyed the documentary of her life on HBO, and I love the inclusive, organic approach she had to her writing, believing that “everything is copy”. I only know that my neck is becoming more like this sad, Chinese Shar-Pei by the day.  Bless. Look at the shame he feels, and rightly so..

 

Ok, maybe it’s not that bad yet. But time and gravity are not going to do me any favors. it’s getting worse and I, like a twenty-something man going bald, can’t help but look at it and say to myself, “This can’t be happening! What the hell are we supposed to do about this??!” Then, a glutton for punishment, I touch the skin, fondling the creases gently, like a loose band aid after bath time.

I await, with great anticipation, the inventor of the neckpee (/nekˈpā/). It’s like a toupee but instead, synthetic skin for managing “the neck” without plastic surgery.

 

vain and self-centered rant over.

love,

ash and “the neck.”

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