I can feel my pulse when I grab the skin on my belly. It's so clear, it vibrates my fingertips. Sometimes I think there's a murmur, but I suppose it's nothing.
68 beats per minute.
That seems average, normal, medium.
I was thinking about medium. I'm a medium kind of guy. I order a medium lemonade and medium fries to go with my plain cheeseburger. I eat medium ham and cheese submarine sandwiches and would choose a medium pizza if such a thing existed. I wear medium pants around my medium waist, and my medium sized shirts compliment my size 10 shoes.
I'm wearing black and gray fleece right now -- simple, average, medium.
My hair used to be blonde, now it's brown, not black, red, or yellow.
In high school, I wasn't "cool" enough for the "cool kids", I wasn't nerdy enough for the nerds, athletic enough for the jocks, introverted enough for the quiet types, extroverted enough for the loud-mouths, unhip enough for the squares, trendy enough for the trendites, conforming enough for the conformists, or radical enough for the extremists. On the track I wasn't fast enough to run with the greyhounds nor was I slow enough to lag behind with the clydesdales. More often than not I occupied some void by myself, watching both groups recede from my vision in opposing directions. And not just on the track.
In the past, I would try to conform to one group or another, which would lead only to frustration.
I don't belong with those other groups. I belong in this void.
Afterall, someone has to cover this space. Someone has to finish 5th out of 10. Someone has to order medium french fries or they'll stop making the cartons. Someone has to stay far enough from the nerds, jocks, and the rest to attempt to explain the whole mess.
I may be medium, but I'm not average. Average is something else -- some other group. If you had to stick me on the bell curve, I'd be sitting in that big empty space underneath the hump. There's more room to breathe under here.