The wife and I were talking over the weekend about our corporal markings and how we got them. Breathtaking conversation, I know. But we both thought it was interesting how a scar is really just a physical story from your past.
With that, here are the stories behind my engraved blemishes in the order I received them. Some dates are educated guesses of course. Not that you asked, but I thought I would document them none-the-less:
- Scar #001, 1980. I don’t know how, but I fell off my kitchen counter as a one year-old leaving an open gash just above my left eye though mostly hidden behind my eyebrow. I obviously don’t remember it, but my skin does. How I got up on the counter at such a young age is another story.
- Scar #002, 1986. While walking bare foot in a local creek, I stepped on a piece of glass leaving a deep scar running vertically on the arch of my left foot. I remember this one was abnormally bloody. I’m not even sure how I managed the 8-block walk home.
- Scar #003, 1987. Number three on my list serves as yet another reminder of the importance of wearing shoes, something I didn’t appreciate at a young age. Skateboarding bare foot just sounds like trouble, and my right foot has the markings to prove it. While zipping down the side walk, I lost control of my board and had to use my foot to slow myself down. The problem was, I used the ball of my right foot to do so and lost a sizable amount of flesh as a result. Ouch!
- Scar #004, 1988. Location: the Student Union Arcade and indoor putt-putt at Oklahoma State. The scar: A seven inch doozie that runs vertically along the left side of my back. The reason: I was trying to steal my miniature golf ball back from the 18th and final hole so I could play another round. I retrieved the green ball by way of some fancy maneuvering, but upon crawling back out of the fenced hole, a rouge nail caught my back and ripped my shirt and the first several layers of skin along with it. The lesson: Don’t steal, kids.
- Scar #005, exact year unknown. I have a one and a half inch scar that runs the length of my left inside forearm. I’m not sure how I got it, but I’d like to think it was part of some ninja gang initiation or something. Hangin’ tough.
- Scar #006, exact year unknown. I have a good size mark on the middle knuckle of my left hand. I imagine I busted through some glass window in an act of heroism, but I can’t be too sure of that. I probably just fell down on the side walk and landed funny.
- Scar #007, 2000. Scar double “o” seven isn’t near as sophisticated as it sounds. It’s actually the most idiotic scar I have imposed upon myself, at a later age even. As a missionary in Brazil, I shared a house with five other missionaries at one time. One of those comrades went by the name of Elder Flint from Alaska. He and I got along well, though we both enjoyed making fun of each another at times. One day while mimicking Flint as if riding a bucking bronco, I hit my head on a low hanging entry way. I cracked my skull open in the process, so much in fact that the back of my head quickly became a marinara dispenser for a brief moment. Long story short, I went to the hospital to sew up my stupidity, but the scar remains the same reminding me that I don’t make for a good physical comedian.
From the looks of it, the 90s were good to me in terms of new scars. My total number of life marks seems rather low too. So either I’m not that much of a man or my skin has superior healing powers. I’ll stick with the latter.