I’m betting you have scars. I don’t know why that is, but I’m betting you do. Something in your eyes…
Lately, it seems I can’t make it through a day without hurting myself somehow. I mean, have you seen my hands? No, of course, you haven’t; but believe me when I tell you that I shouldn’t be allowed to bake, go outside when it’s this cold/dry, or even – as happened yesterday – wash flimsy promotional glassware that cannot take the pressure of both a washcloth and hot water…
Of course not all scars are visible. My heart, for example, has been broken in three places. I don’t think the harm’s been irrevocable, but there are spots you still can’t poke without causing pain.
And what good's a heart if you can't poke it now and then?
Those kinds of scars, the broken-heart variety, are invisible to all but the ones who truly know us.
I don’t like those scars. If I’m going to have a scar, I want to show it off, tell stories about it. People get tired of your broken heart!
Frankly, I lie about my scars. Who wants to hear about a simple ice-induced fall into a knee-full of gravel/sand when I can claim that the tiny little pocks are a result of shrapnel?
This scar? My year at Heidelberg.
And this one? Motorcycle rally in South Dakota – I can’t talk about it without violating the terms of my probation.
Wait – is it still lying if I wink while telling the story?
Oh, well, I’ve got to be going. Just a quick walk to yoga – and if I blog tomorrow about how I chipped my front tooth during a Golden Gloves title bout last night (a fight, by the way, that I’ve been training for for years), you’ll know that I slipped on our ridiculously icy sidewalks.
Bettered by Feathers
3 hours ago