Scars...

I was thinking of the emotional bumps and bruises that we all carry as adults. Someone who said something once, heartache or perhaps an indiscretion that haunts us. These are little dings on the luster of our psychic apparatus that no amount of polish and buffing can transpare.

Uninterrupted, these musings turned to physical scars. Physical scars are funny things. Well, mostly funny things. For some, they are painful reminders of serious trauma that happened without fault. Some are more ominous, and are the result of another's malice. Most of my scars are the result the complete lack of forethought and consequences; either of my part of that of another.

Some of my scars were created just after exclamations such as: "Watch this"! or "Ohmygod"! Famous last words.

There's the scar on my forehead above my right eyebrow. Though I don't remember, the story has me about three years-old. I was jumping on the couch before dinner. Just as my Mom warned me... I DID lose my balance, and I DID crack my head open on the corner of the coffee table.

I have a BB sized dent in my left foot, just below my ankle. Steve Grau wanted to prove to me that his BB gun wasn't powerful enough to break the skin. He was right... it wasn't. But it sure as hell hurt.

I have a scar on my left arm that I tell everyone I got from an oven. That's a lie. I don't talk about that one.

The scar on my right palm is the result of a genius move to separate two cans of Chung-King chicken-something-or-other and the can of crunchy noodles with a big kitchen knife. Mrs. eSquared warned me, watched as I did it, then lovingly bandaged the wound.

Years earlier... right forefinger, first knuckle... I was prying the lid of a concentrated grapejuice can the knife got away from me. No, I didn't learn

Left palm... whittling. Need I say more?

I have various blemishes that are the result of someone telling me, "Don't pick at that"! or, "Leave it alone or it will make a mark"! I didn't, and they did.

One of my best ones is in my right armpit. I was pretty young and playing on the woodpile. Yes, your read that right. Every year, many of our neighbors would contribute and purchase several cords of wood to split up. I mean split figuratively and literally. So... I was PLAYING on the woodpile. This was a good idea only because I was warned against it. If I were given carte blanche... I wouldn't have been interested.

So I'm standing on top of this woodpile... and I am overcome by the impulse to dance to the song "Hey, hey, we're the Monkeys." To know me, is to know that I don't have a coordinated bone in my body... especially at this age. To my awkward body, dancing meant each limb and appendage, including my neck and head, is to convulse independently of each other in twitching and gyrating motions. Reason and balance left me.

I fell on a branch that punctured my armpit. Oh... I was completely alone. We had a neighbor who was a nurse. She was kind enough to stitch me up and come over every evening for a week to change the dressings. She was nice. I hope I thanked her. From then to now... I've never liked that word in that context. Dressing.

Then there is the gunshot scar on my ass. I probably shouldn't post this one on the Internet send me an email and I'll send you the gory details. Well... not that gory... but sure as hell stupid.

There are scars that should be, but aren't. Every year, around the Fourth of July I am shocked and amazed that I still have all of my fingers and toes. My friend Chris and I would do things daily that I see people locked up for on the news today.

I'm sure I've inflicted many scars both physical and emotional. To Chris... I am sorry for shooting you in the pinky finger with a BB gun. It must've hurt like hell. I'm not sorry for laughing myself sick. I'll never forgive you for telling me to go get your fingers after that firecracker had a short fuse. That really freaked me out. Yes you were kidding... I don't blame you for laughing yourself sick.