Sitting in the center of my chest, equidistant between my nipples, I possess an odd attribute. Actually, that phrasing may be a bit misleading. What’s in my chest isn’t the odd part;
what’s odd is what I don’t possess, because, at the base of my sternum, the lowest point where
the two sides of my ribcage interlace, I have a dent. Approximately an inch deep and three to
four inches across, this little crater has had a surprising influence over my life, serving as a
conversation starter, a point of insecurity, and, eventually, the source of a certain amount of
pride. So, in this essay, I would like to discuss the ups and downs of my relationship with my
ever-present dent.
I’m not sure when this concavity first appeared, but I can easily remember when I first
noticed it. Thirteen years old, shirtless, and having a wonderful time at the local pool, I was
approached by an extremely attractive bikini-clad high school girl, who seemed to be staring at
me rather intently. As she walked up, I returned her gaze with as much suave detachment as a
sunburnt, stick thin tween can muster, hoping that by some miracle she had decided she was
attracted to me and that she was about to announce this publicly to the entire pool populace. At
this point, however, I noticed that she was staring at my chest, and as she uttered the following
words, I obtained a new and unpleasant sort of self-awareness.
“Hey little dude, what’s up with your chest?”
I looked down at myself and undoubtedly began blushing, but, luckily, my sunburn
covered it up nicely. This was the first time I had ever noticed that the depression in my chest
was not shared by all of the other males with their shirts off, and I was immediately
uncomfortable. I stammered out a quiet response, hastily put my shirt on, and rode my bike
home, all the while wondering why in the world I had ever let anyone see me shirtless. Thus
began the hate portion of my love/hate relationship with my dent. For around two years, I almost
always refused to remove my shirt in public, even when I was going swimming or doing
something particularly strenuous in sweltering heat, and, when I did happen to remove it out of
absolute necessity, I always had one arm crossing my chest and gripping the opposite shoulder,
attempting to hide this self-perceived flaw any way that I could. Then, one day, around the age of
fifteen, I had a revelation.
I was sitting around in my room, enjoying the wonderful, flatulence-esque music that I am
capable of creating with my hands, my armpits, and the backsides of my knees, when I realized
that any body part with which one could form a pocket of air could be commandeered for the use
of creating fart noises! With a sense of excitement (and perhaps a bit of foreboding, since I
knew that, once I acted upon this thought, my life would be irrevocably changed) I slowly reached
my hand beneath my shirt, cupped it over my dent, and pressed. What followed was the most
satisfying, loud, and realistic simulation of the breaking of wind that my body has ever produced,
and, from then on, I was hooked. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I would bust out my
new found skill, displaying with pride my ability to make fart noises with my concave chest, and,
with that, my self-consciousness was gone.
That day, my crater taught me an important lesson: what might at first appear to be a
glaring flaw can end up being a boon to humankind itself if utilized in the correct manner. This
farting dent has spread laughter and mirth wherever it has gone since I discovered its wonderful
properties, and I believe that it will enrich many more lives in the future; I only wonder what
profound wisdom is still waiting to flow from its abysmal, shadowy depths.