I was lounging on a Cuban beach two years ago, talking to a couple I had met the day before. The fellow looked at my chest and said “So, you’re really glad to see me.” Huh? Then I looked down at my nipples and saw that they were sticking out some. But they’ve always looked that way. And then I forgot the whole thing.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when the weather got warmer and I started wearing t-shirts again. I looked in the mirror and there were my nipples, showing some under the T. And in this version of Bruce, it wasn’t okay. Here’s this nice little Buddhist guy, very familiar with letting things be as they are, starting to obsess about natural bumps on his chest. Whatever happened to nipple peace?
This skewedness continued on its merry way until yesterday. “Go down, you stupid little things.” And that was pretty irrational, since my nips always seem to look the same. Conveniently ignoring that relevant fact, I went to my laptop and Googled “normal male nipple”. I then discovered that there isn’t any such thing. We guys come in all sorts of configurations!
Undeterred by such variance in the male chest, I sallied forth into several Internet articles. One plastic surgeon described “the perfect male nipple”, with the areola being such-and-such a diameter, and a nipple height of 3-4 mm. Being alone in the house, I whipped off my shirt, went to a kitchen drawer, pulled out a ruler and proceeded to do the measurement. 6 mm. “See? I’m abnormal!”
Oh, Bruce. Get a grip. Just accept that you’re an absolutely perfect male specimen, except for nipple height. Actually, aren’t we all perfectly ourselves, even as we regress from the mean of human features? I think we are.
There’s the Six Million Dollar Man, and now we have the Six Millimeter Man. Both absolutely fine examples of the male species.
I woke up this morning, put on my “Shine A Light Upon My Day” t-shirt, laughed at my nippled self, and sauntered over to the Belmont Town Restaurant for brunch. Nobody stared. They pretty much didn’t notice me.
Get my point?