Scars
Despite an active life of biking, hiking, sports and generally doing things, I've somehow managed to acquire only 3 scars in my life thus far.
The first of those scars may not even count as a scar nowadaysn. When we lived in Montana (meaning I was somewhere between 3 and 6, but probably on the older end of the range as I remember this) I was running around the kitchen in my bare socks and slipped. My head made contact with the sharp corner of the kitchen counter, splitting my eyebrow neatly. I got three stitches in my eyebrow, which are to this point in my life the only stitches I've ever gotten. I believe I have a scar from this wound, but nowadays the evidence is buried inside my very thick eyebrow. Without some sort of visible evidence, I'm not even sure if it was left eyebrow or my right eyebrow that took the hit. I think it was the left eyebrow, but I can't really remember. While writing this I looked closely in the mirror, and my eyebrows defeated all efforts to see into their depths. Since I don't feel like shaving them off to elaborate on this story, you'll just have to take my word for it that one of my eyebrows (probably my left) has a scar (probably) in it.
Let's take a brief pause to reflect that if my head had hit a half inch downward the corner of the kitchen counter might have done some terrible things to my eye instead of my eyebrow. Never let it be said that I'm not lucky. Actually, that may not even be the luckiest thing that happened to me while living in Montana, as my most dramatic bike crash saw me fly over the handle bars of my bike and skidded along the ground. Somehow I didn't hit my head, and the extensive skinning of my left knee and corresponding shoulder didn't result in any permanent scarring or damage at all.
Anyway, the other two scars on my body involved far much less dramatics. In fact, both are on the pinky finger of my right hand, which apparently has attracted all the scar karma of my adult life. Both were from stupid accidents, one of predictable nature and one more surprising.
The surprising scar happened in our home in North Dakota when I was helping my mother carry groceries in from the car. In our house there we'd park in the garage and then climb a staircase to the second floor to enter the kitchen. In retrospect, this was a really weird floor plan that I've not seen elsewhere, but I digress. I was carrying plastic bags in each hand when I slipped on the stairs. I went to one knee, and my right hand proceeded to punch down into the plastic bag and THROUGH the now horizontal glass jar of applesauce lying on its side. Somehow, despite my entire fist now being inside a glass apple sauce jar, the only part of my hand that was gashed was the second knuckle of my pinky finger, which now featured a rather substantial flap of flesh that was attached by a narrow hinge of skin. We washed out the applesauce, dosed it in hydrogen peroxide, and wrapped it tightly. Everything healed fine, but I have a small crescent shaped scar on that knuckle now.
I seem to recall that this was while I was home from college for a visit, but it might have been in high school. Either way, I remember being surprised that my entire first went through a jar of apple sauce and only one knuckle got cut. I lucked out again.
The predictable and final scar of the my trio starts at the nail of my right pinky finger and goes almost all the way to the first knuckle, making it easily the largest scar (ok, largest visible scar since I can't compare the one on my eyebrow) on my body. This happened from a knife accident while prepping dinner in my current home. The knife wasn't sharp enough, slipped while I was cutting something (I don't remember what, but probably an onion), and took blood from my finger as tribute. The cut wasn't terribly deep, but the location made it break open a lot no matter how I wrapped it, so I got a nice little scar to remind me to sharpen my knives regularly. I believe this was more than a decade ago now. It certainly predates my meeting M in 2014.
If I was superstitious I'd say that there mere act of writing this has left me open to get another scar through some sort of karmic retribution, but I think I'll take my chances and click post.
The first of those scars may not even count as a scar nowadaysn. When we lived in Montana (meaning I was somewhere between 3 and 6, but probably on the older end of the range as I remember this) I was running around the kitchen in my bare socks and slipped. My head made contact with the sharp corner of the kitchen counter, splitting my eyebrow neatly. I got three stitches in my eyebrow, which are to this point in my life the only stitches I've ever gotten. I believe I have a scar from this wound, but nowadays the evidence is buried inside my very thick eyebrow. Without some sort of visible evidence, I'm not even sure if it was left eyebrow or my right eyebrow that took the hit. I think it was the left eyebrow, but I can't really remember. While writing this I looked closely in the mirror, and my eyebrows defeated all efforts to see into their depths. Since I don't feel like shaving them off to elaborate on this story, you'll just have to take my word for it that one of my eyebrows (probably my left) has a scar (probably) in it.
Let's take a brief pause to reflect that if my head had hit a half inch downward the corner of the kitchen counter might have done some terrible things to my eye instead of my eyebrow. Never let it be said that I'm not lucky. Actually, that may not even be the luckiest thing that happened to me while living in Montana, as my most dramatic bike crash saw me fly over the handle bars of my bike and skidded along the ground. Somehow I didn't hit my head, and the extensive skinning of my left knee and corresponding shoulder didn't result in any permanent scarring or damage at all.
Anyway, the other two scars on my body involved far much less dramatics. In fact, both are on the pinky finger of my right hand, which apparently has attracted all the scar karma of my adult life. Both were from stupid accidents, one of predictable nature and one more surprising.
The surprising scar happened in our home in North Dakota when I was helping my mother carry groceries in from the car. In our house there we'd park in the garage and then climb a staircase to the second floor to enter the kitchen. In retrospect, this was a really weird floor plan that I've not seen elsewhere, but I digress. I was carrying plastic bags in each hand when I slipped on the stairs. I went to one knee, and my right hand proceeded to punch down into the plastic bag and THROUGH the now horizontal glass jar of applesauce lying on its side. Somehow, despite my entire fist now being inside a glass apple sauce jar, the only part of my hand that was gashed was the second knuckle of my pinky finger, which now featured a rather substantial flap of flesh that was attached by a narrow hinge of skin. We washed out the applesauce, dosed it in hydrogen peroxide, and wrapped it tightly. Everything healed fine, but I have a small crescent shaped scar on that knuckle now.
I seem to recall that this was while I was home from college for a visit, but it might have been in high school. Either way, I remember being surprised that my entire first went through a jar of apple sauce and only one knuckle got cut. I lucked out again.
The predictable and final scar of the my trio starts at the nail of my right pinky finger and goes almost all the way to the first knuckle, making it easily the largest scar (ok, largest visible scar since I can't compare the one on my eyebrow) on my body. This happened from a knife accident while prepping dinner in my current home. The knife wasn't sharp enough, slipped while I was cutting something (I don't remember what, but probably an onion), and took blood from my finger as tribute. The cut wasn't terribly deep, but the location made it break open a lot no matter how I wrapped it, so I got a nice little scar to remind me to sharpen my knives regularly. I believe this was more than a decade ago now. It certainly predates my meeting M in 2014.
If I was superstitious I'd say that there mere act of writing this has left me open to get another scar through some sort of karmic retribution, but I think I'll take my chances and click post.