Something
lighter next time, I promise.
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I've never had a cold, a flu, so much as a sniffle or a sore throat. My temperature will never read anything other than 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit.
Dehydration on a summer day? Never.
Blood pressure rising with age? Not for me.
Shouldn't it be enough?
Standing at five feet and five inches, I will never weigh any more or less than one hundred and twenty five pounds. No matter how much I eat. No matter how little.
I can bleach my hair and tan myself to into a carbon copy of what passes for perfection, though the dirty blonde hair and brown eyes aren't so bad, really.
So shouldn't it be enough?
My mutation is one that many would call a blessing, and one I should too. Baring serious injury, I will always stay in perfect health. Absolute homeostasis.
Not a healing factor, but more like a tonic. My body will age, but slowly, gracefully, staying always in this form.
No famine will take my figure, even if it's self imposed.
Ideal in a text book manner, stable, never changing, the all American woman.
More than ordinary, but less than perfect.
It should be enough.
But it's not.