If you see me on the street in the early months of the school year, you may ask me how my summer was. Unlike the regular answers of “fine” or “fun,” my summer forced me into a vacation I didn’t want to take.
In late June, I entered a corrective surgery to fix my left lung. In short, my lung kept collapsing and I had a surgery to avoid it from collapsing again. The stay was expected to be five or six days, but ended up stretching to 15 days due to a second unexpected surgery.
During my time in the hospital, doctors had inserted a tube into my left side right under my armpit. It was connected to a medical pump that inflated my lung after I had the surgery. For my entire stay, that tube lodged in my side, and became a part of me. It breathed when I breathed and it moved when I moved.
At the end of the 14-night excursion, the doctors came to my room to remove the tube. When they had removed all the surrounding tape, they put their hands on the tube and POP! the tube had left the building.
This tube was my ball and chain. It had kept me trapped inside the hospital, forcing me to spend my summer months in the air conditioning, avoiding the sparkles and warmth of the sun.
I entered life differently after I was freed. I could literally breathe better but the scars that lay on my body — the scars from the tube — gave me a frightening realization that I will have to carry for the rest of my life: I will never accomplish my dream of becoming an underwear model.
Yes, some kids when they are young are thinking about being a police officer or an astronaut. And me? I wanted to be a model. I remember buying my first Fabio poster in fifth grade; I remember when my parents bought me a 16-pack of American Crew pomade when I was 13, and I remember when Instagram came out I knew that my dreams of becoming a male model were going to happen.
I looked for small time photographers for photo shoots to keep within my small budget; I emailed, called and wrote Ralph Lauren, Duluth Trading Company, MeUndies, Under Armor and American Eagle every week asking if they had any opportunities. Once, Calvin Klein—THE Calvin Klein— replied to my email and told me that if I didn’t stop harassing his secretaries on the phone to let me talk to him he would call the cops. I
was speechless. Calvin Klein talked to me!
But now, I am a lost soul.
The scars on my body would never let me enter a company’s photo shoot. No one would hire me. My dreams of eventually entering the cologne and perfume television commercial industry were also ruined. I have no reason to move on.
I guess I may have to try out hand modeling. That’s just too many lotions a day for me to keep track of and I would have to wear gloves all the time to avoid cuts and bruises. But then again I could wear some fancy watches or rings.
Well, the moral of the story: sometimes dreams don’t always come true, but no one can stop you from dreaming.
And on second thought, if you see me on the street and ask how my summer was, just please avoid shaking my hand. I think I’m going to call up Rolex.
