A Terrible Metaphor

After two years (well, one year, eleven months and 16 days) I had flattered myself into thinking I felt at home in Japan. Admittedly I don't feel that sense of self-loathing when I go to work, that sense of dread when I see the police, or that bile-tinged rage whenever I watch the news. But it took me all of 45 minutes to re-adjust to most of what constitutes the American culture. With the glaring exception of how bloated and overfed and pasty most folks look, anyway.

It was like getting back into a battered, worn old pair of cotton boxer shorts. Sure, it wasn't glamorous, and there was a part on the waistband where the elastic was coming out and pinching me everytime I stood up, and the seams are starting to fray on the sides and leave little strings all over the other clothes in the wash. But putting them on was effortless.

Japan, on the other hand, is more like, uh, going commando (that'd be, er, going out in the field with no support). Sure, you can tell yourself its more natural, but it takes longer to get used to an, uh, unfurnished basement. And you have to be a lot more careful in the bathroom, especially with zippers.

All of which is to say that, uh, being in Japan isn't like wearing no underwear, but it's not far off, sometimes.