This year I’ve asked for a genetic test as a gift from my sister for Christmas. This may, of course, open up a whole can of worms. F-A-B thinks it’s silly, and maybe it is, but who can resist knowing if they are part Neanderthal? It also might reveal that I am not my father’s daughter, but my instinctive reaction is that this is ridiculous. He’s always been my dad and will remain so even if genetically he isn’t my father. (Of course I say that now, but who knows how I will feel really if this turns out to be not true?)
I’m also going to stop by a place today that has a bioimpedence test for free. It tells with some accuracy what the make-up of your body is, how much fat and muscle and that sort of thing. There’s a race going on this weekend and the hospital has set up a stand there with this test for years. My knees no longer let me run the race anymore, but I like to do the test.
So why all this interest in what is inside me? My genes, my muscles, my fat, etc. I really don’t know where this comes from, especially as normally I don’t care so much about the “me” of me; I’ve always recognized that while we are each unique, we are also the anti-thesis of unique. Being human on our planet is pretty much “been there, done that”; every thought has been thought, every tragedy, every birth, every death has happened a million times before. It’s never happened to us, personally, and that’s what makes it interesting to us. I, personally, have never died before, and when it comes time, I’m going to wallow my individuality (I hope not “wallow”, but we never know how we’re going to feel about it when we breathe our last breath. My hope is that it comes too quickly to really get the measure of it, or that at least it happens without too much pain. Death is often the result of pain being too much to take. It really can be too much.)
Maybe it’s just that I’ve always been told “it’s what’s inside you that counts”, and I want to find out what’s there.