You know how, at the planetarium, you can step on various scales to see how much you’d weigh elsewhere in the Solar System?
Well, by my calculations, Cancerland has roughly the same specific gravity as Uranus, because I weigh about twenty percent less here than I did back home.
There are good and bad things about weighing twenty percent less. I wasn’t chubby in the first place, so here in Cancerland I am probably too lean. All right, to be honest, my torso at this point looks a bit too much like that of the figure depicted on the Shroud of Turin, whoever he may be. Starkers, I might be a flesh-colored TV antenna.
On the other hand, dressed, I think (perhaps delusionally) that I look lanky, in that wonderful Henry Fonda, Jimmy Stewart, Gary Cooper way, though I am not nearly as tall as they were.
I once wrote about Fred Astaire (for someone else to say aloud on television; I am plagiarizing myself here) that he was so thin he looked as if he could turn around inside his clothes. This, to me, gave the man a kind of transcendant elegance, and I like to think (especially after a grappa) that I now have maybe just a tiny touch of that.
On top of which, given what’s stalking me, the ability to pull off a surprise getaway by turning around inside my clothes may prove to be a very handy thing indeed at some point.