Nifty

Found on rattgirl ^..^ Thanks, Ratty-chan.

Scars...I have a few

As I haven’t made an attempt to do a quiz-spam post, I thought I’d go ahead and type up something I was thinking about while I was showering. Yesterday, while boxing up some of my things and carrying them out to my Dad’s shed, I ended up tearing a piece out of my pointer finger. It was an accident (as most injuries are). I was opening up one of the sliding doors, and the tin caught me the wrong way in the crease of my knuckle tearing a small part of skin off. It’s my pointer finger on my left hand. It’d nothing huge, but they say the wounds that hurt most are small in and plain sight, right?

My parents are huge Neosporin advocates. Every possible cut, abrasion or bruise should have the proper application of Neosporin, be covered with a band-aid and then have Neosporin reapplied every evening before bed (and a fresh bandage should be added every few nights if the spot that’s been cut is out in the open and in regular use). As for me...I kinda like my scars.

Don’t get me wrong. If there was something that happened to my face, I’d probably be applying Neosporin every night just like they say. But most of my scars, I tend to enjoy seeing. It’s like ...a weird way of viewing life experience. Everything turns to callus eventually anyway, right? This body wont be young, strong and beautiful forever (hell, it ain’t all that right now!), so there’s no use pretending that any such up-keep will keep me from getting old an frail. I don’t have that many scars really. But, there tends to be a story behind each one.

There’s the ones on the top of my right arm. The tiny pock marks that I’ve had since I was a tiny baby, when I wasn’t old enough to realize the difference between dirt and an ant mound. I stuck my little chubby right hand right in that ant hill, and I still carry those scars on that hand. It an experience that I’ve been told about a dozen times that I don’t even remember. And that old burn mark on the underside of my right forearm. That I got when I reached around a popper at the theater the wrong way. It’s still there. I can see it and remember where I got it and it’s a reminder of that place, in an odd way. My left arm has a tiny hole near the crease of my elbow where I accidentally forgot a pencil was sticking straight up and slammed my arm down on my desk. It’s still the color of pencil lead. And now my left pointer finger will have such a mark on it, and I’ll say to myself “I got that when I was packing up stuff so I could move out of my parents house and into my own.” It’ll be a memory. Not to mention the scars I bear from my surgeries. I don’t see them as something that needs repair…just another story to tell...Of course...there are scars that I wouldn’t mind some explaining on...like the one on my right leg, just below my knee cap…a long scar that I have no memory of. Maybe I should just make up a cool story to go with that one ^..^

Maybe it’s silly...but I actually like my scars. It’s another thing that makes me different from other people. And God help me if ever I am like them.

That’ll be all. I’m tired and I must get up early. G’night, Sunshines.

 

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