When I was a child—I have no idea how old I was at the time—I went fishing with my family. Eldest daughter to a father who spent a lot of time at work so he could support his family, I cherished any time with my dad, especially if it involved being outdoors.
On that particular day my father landed what is likely one of his biggest catches ever—me. If you’ve never seen a fishhook then you need to know that in order to actually land the fish, hooks are by necessity barbed. Read: they go in much easier than they come out. This one caught me on the inside of my left calf. And it hurt coming out.
I still have the scar.
When I was in college I dated my now husband for several years before we got brave enough to actually tie the knot. During that time we both enjoyed a variety of intramural sports available at the university we were attending.
When I played, he would practice with me. One year it was all he could do to keep it quiet when I accidentally hit a softball so hard and high it broke one of the top floor windows in the nearby physical education building. When he played I would cheer the loudest and was perfectly willing to keep score, yell at the ump, or go fetch fly balls. One season the ball went under a chain link fence. So I did too. As I came back out, the fence caught me right across the top of the knee. It was mostly just a flesh wound; but it certainly left its mark.
I still have the scar.
Since I have become a wife and a mother, I have dutifully attended the requisite family reunion campouts with the in-laws, just as my husband has attends those with my family. And I put a lot of thought into what I’m going to prepare to compete in the annual Dutch-oven cook-off. Maybe too much thought.
One year the entrée was to be a divinely seasoned Atlantic salmon that I knew was sure to win. But as I stepped up onto the cook-trailer to sauté the garlic and butter I felt a pop in my right knee. And I almost passed out from the pain. I limped around after it became bearable enough and completed my entry. Two weeks later I went into surgery for a scope and came out having had an ACL repair. That one goes down as one of the most grueling recoveries I have ever endured. My knee will never be the same.
I still have the scar(s).
Of course I have had many other experiences that have also left their marks. There is the scar across the bottom of my left foot from stitches I got one summer night when I was horsing around in the back of a pick-up truck and I stepped on a broken Coca-Cola bottle. And a couple of varicose veins I picked up during various pregnancies (outside left knee). As well as the hole in my left calf from where my sun-worshipping youth caught up with me well on the way to melanoma.
Under my sk*rt hide the remains of a few wounds I have suffered, memories of a life l love living. Some came about during good times; others during not-so-good times.
A lot of people believe scars are ugly. They don’t want to look at their own and they are especially careful to hide them from view. But to me, my scars are beautiful. Behind each scar lies a story. And those stories make me who I am–girl, daughter, sister, girlfriend, woman, wife, mother and friend.
What are you hiding under your sk*rt?
(The preceeding is my entry for the latest contest with Parent Bloggers Network over at sk*rt. Want to play? You can vote for my entry over at sk*rt –just click on the big number at the left of the entry. You can leave a comment and tell me what you are hiding under your sk*rt. Or, if you want to submit an entry yourself and become eligible for prizes galore you can follow this link for contest details–in which case you can still vote for my entry, too.)
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