I want to talk about scars. Not the deep, emotional kind that teach us valuable lessons though. No, I’d like to talk about the actual physical scars that we collect on our bodies over the years. See, I had dinner tonight with a new friend (whom I shall be calling Rainbow, as she is a former Christian who bears a rainbow Jesus fish tattoo on her foot and is often asked if the rainbow means she’s gay and then she has to explain no, believers had the rainbow dibsed as a symbol WAAAAY before the damn gays stole it and, as she was telling me that story, I definitely was finishing her sentences for her and so we high-fived because SAME/SAME.)
I had dinner tonight with my new friend Rainbow. She’s lovely and, as I mentioned before, a former member of the Christian faith. This gave us quite a bit to talk about, naturally. We discussed what it was like leaving the church, the experiences that led to our decisions, and the process of coming out as non-believers to our Jesus-y friends. We talked about emotional scars. But mostly we laughed. And then somehow the conversation turned to physical scars and before we knew it, we were rolling up sleeves and pant legs to show battle wounds of living life.
I showed her my three favorite scars and told her the stories that accompany them.
1) On my left hand, I have three little half-moon scars. One is at the base of my pointer finger. Then, about an inch below that one is another and a half inch below that, the last one. If you take my sister’s hand and line up her pinky, ring finger, and middle finger, you’ll see they are a perfect match for this little cluster of mutilation. It is important to note Ceci will deny this story. It is also important to note that Ceci’s memory is not known for being awesome. See, what happened was this: we were home alone one day and Mom was at work and so we spent the entire day bugging each other. Things got heated and we both wanted to call Mom at work to tattle on the other. We raced to the phone and grabbed the receiver at the exact same time. As my hand closed around the handset, her VULTURE-LIKE TALONS closed over my hand, slicing the skin and drawing blood. I didn’t even miss a beat, y’all. I took the phone and CLOCKED her in the FACE. That’s when we took a moment to see the situation. My hand was bleeding. Her lip was starting to swell. And we had one of those moments shared by siblings all over the world: we knew we would both be in trouble, so we made a silent pact to keep our mouths shut about the entire debacle. We calmly stepped away from the phone and went to our rooms to read, Mom never knowing anything about anything.
2) The summer before 9th grade, my family had just finished a day out on the lake. We decided to go to The Gulch, our town’s mini theme park. It had mini-golf, y’all. And sand volleyball courts. And a batting cage. Mom told me to hurry and take a shower, so I ran back to the bathroom. As I showered, I wondered if anyone from school was going to be at The Gulch that night. THEN I thought about all the boys I was crushin’ on. THEN I looked at my legs and decided to shave them. Quickly. Like, super speedy quick. It was not my best decision. I lathered quickly and began to drag the razor up my left shin. I was also trying to multitask by washing my hair at the same time. (I don’t even know.) I rinsed the razor and bent to shave my knee. That’s when it registered: the water in the bottom of the tub had turned an alarming shade of bright red. And also, my shin was gushing blood. Like, GUSHING. Evidently the razor had twisted sideways as I’d dragged it up my leg. I kind of panicked but also needed to finish the job, so just went as quickly as I could and hoped for the best. As I dried off, I realized the bleeding wasn’t stopping. At all.
At this point, Mom starts banging on the bathroom door, telling me to hurry up because we needed to go and also, what on earth was taking so long? So I told her I cut my leg shaving.
She slid a Band-Aid under the door.
I timidly called out that I think I needed a bigger bandage. At this point, she opened the door and saw me frantically trying to stop the bleeding with soggy toilet paper. Her mad RN skillz took over and, as she bandaged my leg, she ranted at me for wasting time shaving my legs because why on EARTH does a girl my age need to shave her legs and WHO did I think was going to be at The Gulch anyway, and also COULD I be more ridiculous? She finished taping the huge, white bandage to my shin and told me to be in the car in 5 minutes.
So yes, now I have a 5 inch scar on my shin. But you know what? It was totally worth it because Schuyler Kuykendall was totally there AND he totally talked to me.
SK: What happened to your leg?
Me: Big cut.
SK: How’d you do that?
Me: Totally. Tried to do a flip. Cut my leg on the ski. Somehow. It happened.
SK: Bad ass.
Me: I know.
(About 5 minutes after that my mother and her friend Connie walked by and Connie saw my leg and was all, “WHAT HAPPENED??” and my mother was all, “SHE CUT IT SHAVING!” and Schuyler Kuykendall was all, “Peace out, liar,” and I was all, “MY MOTHER HAS RUINED MY LIFE AGAIN.”)
(It ended okay though. Schuyler Kuykendall’s brother was Kyle Kuykendall and he was a year ahead of me in school and played football and was number 27 and we used to say “Oh thank heaven for 27,” and we’d giggle and then he was in my math class junior year and totally stood up for me against our evil math teacher and I might be still a little in love with him for that. Plus he’s totally cute.)
(My mother wants me to marry him but I tell her it will never happen because she tattled on me in front of Schuyler and now I’ll always be *that girl* and blood is thicker than water and it’s her fault Kyle Kuykendall will never be her son-in-law.)
3. On my right hand, I have a 2 inch scar below my thumb. This one happened about 3 months ago. I was at work and trying to get into the cabinet where I thought they kept the chocolate. I scraped my hand on the child safety device.
I’ll say that again.
I SCRAPED MY MOTHER FUCKIN’ HAND ON THE CHILD SAFETY DEVICE.
It bled forever and now it’s scarred and ugly and you know what? THERE WASN’T EVEN ANY DAMN CHOCOLATE IN THE CABINET ANYWAY.
So I was telling Rainbow about my scars and, to save time, I nicknamed them. Scar 1 was The Scar of Wrath. Scar 2 was The Scar of Pride. And Scar 3 was The Scar of Gluttony.
And that is when I had the GREATEST IDEA I’VE EVER HAD.
I’m going to collect scars based on the se7en deadly sins, y’all. I’m already almost halfway there! I’m only missing 4 scars and how hard is it to get 4 more scars?
Scars I’m missing:
4. The Scar of Envy: This one seems easy. I think all I have to do is get into a bar fight with some bitch who be eyeballing my man. I mean, yeah, first I have to get a man. And then some bitch has to eyeball him. But when it happens? I’m totally going to break a bottle and start a brawl and then I bet I get a scar from that and BAM. The Scar of Envy will be born.
5. The Scar of Greed: Again, easy. I just have to start taking things I want without asking/paying. Then there will be a kerfuffle. And a battle. And you know what comes after a battle? BATTLE SCARS, Y’ALL. Done. Easy.
6. The Scar of Lust: Hehehehehehee. My mother reads my blog, so that’s all I’m going to say about that. But again, EASY.
7. The Scar of Sloth: This is the tricky one, guys. I’m not sure how one gets a scar from being slothful. I have two options. One, I can stay in bed for months and months and let my muscles waste away. THEN I can stand up, like to walk to the fridge or something, and hopefully I’ll fall down and cut myself on something sharp. OR two, maybe I’ll get a bedsore, as Rainbow helpfully pointed out.
As you can see, I’m kind of stuck with number 7. Your suggestions are appreciated.
I’m giving myself 10 years to collect all se7en. I figure if I don’t have them by the time I’m 40, well, I don’t deserve them because I’ve lived an obviously dull life.
But I’m not worried y’all. It’s good to have a goal.
My only regret is that I already submitted my UW application and now I can’t update them with my awesome goal-making skillz.
(It’s okay though. Regret is an EMOTIONAL scar.)
Keep your fingers crossed for me y’all!