WARNING: The following meditation has been rated WEIRD by the Senior Member of the Yummish Council, who finds emotional scars far more interesting than the physical variety.
SCARS: A perspective by HotGingerMess
I love my scars. They're almost ridiculously sexy. No plastic-fantastic, Barbie-boring body here, no sir. My body is a unique, ever-evolving work of art. My scars are the story of my life, writ large in fleshy hieroglyphics. They are the souvenirs of the adventures of my life.
First, there is my favorite scar – my hockey scar. It's on my left knee. I got it when I fell down at a hockey game... in the stands... while completely sober. While it wasn't so funny at the time (and cost me the one pair of pants that made my butt look acceptable), it has since become one of my favorite one-liners to tell, timing being, as it is, everything.
Below that are the faint remains of road rash, from when I laid down my Kawasaki Ninja. Suffice it to say, fuel is necessary for acceleration and the reserve tank is your friend. Still, any motorcycle story – even one where you end up on the pavement – is bound to impress someone. (I must assume this is so, or else Ewan McGregor couldn't keep making all of the Long Way Whatever movies.)
Then there is the scar on the left side of my upper lip – the result of an epic paper cut gained while... licking an ordinary white, size 9 envelope. While the story is less-than-epic, I like the rakish look it gives my face. The ring through my navel also has a unique, jaunty angle, thanks to the hernia scar above it. The surgery scar on my lower abdomen underlines and highlights the Chinese dragon tattooed on my belly, creating a type of altar on which she dances.
The scars on my back are no uglier than the moles they replaced, but are far more mysterious. Gun shot wounds? Cigarette burns from some torturous spy game? Samples of human flesh taken during an alien abduction? All more interesting options than some unsightly “cluster of melanocytes.” My chicken pox scar is a sexy almond shape, like a tiny white eye on my inner thigh. The deformed middle finger of my right hand reminds me of the day when, as a young teen, I elected not to have the break set, because the presence of a cast would have caused me to miss out on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
I could go on... and on and on and on. I've gained at least one scar for every year I've been alive. (I'm also clumsier and more fair-skinned than most, so I'm probably somewhat ahead of the curve.) Each one has a story, though. Each is a symbol of triumph, a victory over injury, illness, or adversity. They are outward signs of my inner strength.
In a game of survival of the fittest, my scars are the proof – I'm a survivor. What could be sexier than that?
Today's exercise: Celebrate your scars, wrinkles, freckles and other “imperfections” and the triumphant tales behind them.
Next: Announcing the Third Yummish Saint
SCARS: A perspective by HotGingerMess
I love my scars. They're almost ridiculously sexy. No plastic-fantastic, Barbie-boring body here, no sir. My body is a unique, ever-evolving work of art. My scars are the story of my life, writ large in fleshy hieroglyphics. They are the souvenirs of the adventures of my life.
First, there is my favorite scar – my hockey scar. It's on my left knee. I got it when I fell down at a hockey game... in the stands... while completely sober. While it wasn't so funny at the time (and cost me the one pair of pants that made my butt look acceptable), it has since become one of my favorite one-liners to tell, timing being, as it is, everything.
Then there is the scar on the left side of my upper lip – the result of an epic paper cut gained while... licking an ordinary white, size 9 envelope. While the story is less-than-epic, I like the rakish look it gives my face. The ring through my navel also has a unique, jaunty angle, thanks to the hernia scar above it. The surgery scar on my lower abdomen underlines and highlights the Chinese dragon tattooed on my belly, creating a type of altar on which she dances.
The scars on my back are no uglier than the moles they replaced, but are far more mysterious. Gun shot wounds? Cigarette burns from some torturous spy game? Samples of human flesh taken during an alien abduction? All more interesting options than some unsightly “cluster of melanocytes.” My chicken pox scar is a sexy almond shape, like a tiny white eye on my inner thigh. The deformed middle finger of my right hand reminds me of the day when, as a young teen, I elected not to have the break set, because the presence of a cast would have caused me to miss out on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
I could go on... and on and on and on. I've gained at least one scar for every year I've been alive. (I'm also clumsier and more fair-skinned than most, so I'm probably somewhat ahead of the curve.) Each one has a story, though. Each is a symbol of triumph, a victory over injury, illness, or adversity. They are outward signs of my inner strength. In a game of survival of the fittest, my scars are the proof – I'm a survivor. What could be sexier than that?
Today's exercise: Celebrate your scars, wrinkles, freckles and other “imperfections” and the triumphant tales behind them.
Next: Announcing the Third Yummish Saint
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