Body parts revisited, white trousers, and wrinkles

At the place I worked yesterday and today there are a large number of foreign teachers, many of whom have been here even longer than me. This makes it a good place to find out things. In the staff room yesterday at lunchtime I posed the question about body parts that came up on Tuesday evening. I asked whether anybody had ever had an operation here - or had a family member have an operation here - which involved the removal of body parts.

A few people said yes.

"So tell me," I said, "Were you shown the body part after the operation?"

"Oh, yeah!" said one guy. "You should have seen my wife's appendix!"

I didn't think I should have seen it, particularly at lunchtime, but he went on to describe it in detail anyway. He even specified what kind of sausage it looked like. I then got to hear what knee cartilage looked like, and an umbilical cord. (But apparently umbilical cords are presented to the parents, wrapped up in a little box, and not just shown.)

Perhaps living in Japan for a long time makes you insensitive, because nobody stopped eating during this rather gory discussion.

But then a few other teachers said they or family members had had operations and nothing like that happened. It seems to depend on the hospital. And perhaps on the kind of operation.

Also, The Man finally remembered that when he had his tonsils out, when he was a kid, he was shown them afterwards. Somehow that seems a bit less weird. Showing the person who was operated on seems reasonable. I'd be interested if a bit of my body had been removed. But showing the nearest and dearest? Eeeew!

Eventually someone changed the subject by reading part of a newspaper article out loud:

"Did you read this? Nearly half of Americans suffer mental disorders during their lifetime," he said, and an Australian promptly responded in a surprised tone,

"Really? Only half?"

I didn't laugh. I was still recovering from the sausage story. That was a very sick appendix.

Today I had the class that caused me such problems last week, and managed to stamp on any silliness before it could get started. I am such a spoilsport. Poor Risa looked a little hurt when I singled her out and told her to stop talking when I was talking otherwise she'd lose points, but I had to do something. She is too quick (and loud) for me, and for the other students. She understands what I'm saying, so assumes everybody else does, too. But some of them need a little time, and when she distracts them they lose track of what's going on. She's a very distracting person.

I made it up to her later, though, by teasing her about her age and her non-existent beard. We were doing descriptions of people today, and her partner described her as ninety years old (instead of nineteen) and clean-shaven He had not quite understood what clean-shaven meant, and she thought it was as funny as I did.

Koji nearly derailed things again, though, in the final activity (and thank goodness it was the final activity). After the students had written these descriptions of their partners, I collected all the bits of paper and handed them out again thoroughly muddled, and the students had to read the description, find the person described, give them the paper, and then sit down again. There was happy chaos for a while.

But then everybody returned to their seats except Koji, and I looked around to see where he was. I was beginning to think he'd sneakily left the room when a girl suddenly let out a little shriek and pointed under the empty desk next to her. Sure enough, there was Koji, peering earnestly at legs and consulting his paper.

I asked him what he was doing, and he held up his paper. "White trousers," he said, looking anxious. "WHERE?"

He was genuinely upset. He couldn't find the person on his paper, and it really upset him. The rest of the class, however, thought this was hilarious. He stood up, banging his head on the desk.

"OUCH! NO WHITE TROUSERS!" he shouted indignantly, waving his paper.

The class roared.

He was right, though. The trousers in question were light beige.

On my way home tonight, on my third train, I got on at the wrong time and couldn't get a seat. Resigned to standing for the forty-minute home stretch, I put the heavy full-of-homework bag on the floor, slung the other one more securely over my shoulder, plugged in my ear buds, cranked up the music, and gripped a strap. Almost immediately I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to see that an elderly gentleman was giving me his seat. I unplugged, thanked him, and told him I was all right and he should keep it. He insisted, and carried on insisting. Finally I sat down. This made him happy, but I felt a little depressed. Just how old was I looking? Also, he looked too frail to be standing. I wished someone would stand up for him - there were plenty of young people sitting and ignoring the little drama. I was pleased when several people got off at the next stop and he could sit after all.

But still, it was a special occasion. I have been in Japan for fifteen years, riding the trains most days, and that was the second time someone has stood up for me on a train. (The first time was at least ten years ago, and I definitely was not wrinkled then.) It was lovely, really, to sit when I wasn't expecting to. My legs were grateful. I'd been up since five, and on my feet most of the day.

So never mind wrinkles. If wrinkles get me a seat at the end of a long day I'm all for them.


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