I didn’t get stretch marks when I was pregnant.  I got them when I was fat.  Twelve, maybe younger.  I have white squiggly ones that look like yawning maggots, stretching across my breasts, near my hips, and along my inner thighs.  I never really notice them, but I remember them when they were young and impressionable, pink and rosy like the past.   They were red as I took to fattening up, and when I lost weight, I remember feeling as thrilled as I imagined the obese men who’d lost half their weight claimed to feel upon finding their penis again.  Because my red stripes turned white.  It was as exciting as collarbones and belts.  I know some people rub them with vitamin e.  Others wear them like a banner, proud of their body’s great history.  I don’t mind mine so much, despite describing them as maggots.  I mind, much more than silly stretch marks, moles.  I’ve never really noticed them on my own body, but when I observe others, just casually in passing, I notice how we seem to collect dark marks as we age.  I’m not bothered by aging, just the markings, the dots, like the rings of trees.  I’m due for a physical.  I need a proper doctor here in Texas who doesn’t need to look at my vagina.  I’ve already got one of those–eh, the vagina and the doc for it.  I’m in need of a dermatologist and an internist, someone who can remove fluid from my ganglion cyst.  Score.  I totally managed to get maggots, moles,penis, vagina, ganglion, and cyst into one blog post.  Go, Steph.