Beyond the difficulties created by my habitual debilitation itself are those of my appearance. It’s bad enough limping around the house and town, wincing upon sitting down and suffering through yard work and football all bruised and welted or stiff from being tied up for hours on end. It’s much harder doing all that in the long pants or sweats I need to hide my welted legs. And it’s even worse never being able to take my shirt off. Besides the broiling heat of our southern summers, I’ve never exactly been the modest type. I know I have a great body, and I’ve never been shy about showing it off. Most summers I go around in nothing more than shorts half the time. My mother used to frown on this, and I’ve seized on her earlier urge to prayer to explain my changing behavior.
“I’m glad to see
