Exoskelton

This morning, the weather provided entertainment in the shape of hailstones slicing sideways through cold rain, pelting this earthling with atmospheric buckshot as I trotted to the car.  The precipitation shuddered in the wind, erupting in sudden waves of heavy intensity that soaked me by the time I got inside.  It wasn't raining when I got on the elevator to descend; at the ground floor it was furious with temper that abated just as quickly by the time I arrived at destination north of the city.  What caught my eye on the way was the vision of a bundle walking; couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but this person owned the largest umbrella in town.  They were wrestling against ribs flipping and cloth flapping willy-nilly in the gusts, and because of the immensity of the umbrella, the person appeared to be a small animal surrounded by a shell.  I thought of a snail pulling in, a mollusk trying to shut a door unsuccessfully, of a crab arranging wee business in a disorderly world.

The umbrella was an exoskeleton, a layer of protection and structure against the empyreal elements blasting; an oyster on the half-shell, a clam casino of human under limpet preservation.  We are so soft, our skin so effortlessly damaged that we need clothing, shelter--amendments to our fragile state.  A little brown rabbit lives outside all winter in frigid temperatures, with nothing but his bunny fur and good luck at finding plant life to nibble.  We wouldn't last three days out there, naked.  Sure, rabbits and squirrels go into a semi-hibernation, but imagining something that weighs ten pounds making it is astounding.  I don't understand how birds, whose body temperature is 105 degrees, keep going even with all the metabolic tricks they have.

We humans are able to construct exoskeletons to serve us: medieval armor, automobiles, helmets, sweaters, and buildings.  Thank goodness, because when you come down to it, all the stuff about the human body being beautiful is nonsense.  Rare the individual, brief the moment, when proportion and lumps are even, hair grows in proper places, and the entire article does not look like it needs starch and ironing.  Really, we are awkward.  No adaptations such as sleekness for speed, spots or stripes for camouflage; we build anything we need, paint on colors when we like.  Find me a beautiful human, and it is likely they are made of marble chiseled by Venetians, or flattened on canvas as an idealized odalisque.  Thank heavens for Toulouse, who began painting people as they really are.

The winds still explore every crevice outside, pushing and pulling at branches and loose papers.  I am glad to close windows, bringing closure to the day and silence to evening hours.  Sleep well, the hours are changing soon, pull into your shell and close the operculum.  Tuck under covers, let sleep come in.