Wounds

I've written about getting hurt on various occasions. There was the roller skating incident, for one. I made reference to an escalator incident. One I don't believe I have mentioned involved a marble coffee table. The most recent have had to do with, in order, a double-bladed axe, a window-mounted air conditioning unit and a cheap pair of sunglasses. To write of these and others yet untold makes me realize how, in spite of never requiring hospitalization any time I can remember, I have incurred numerous minor injuries, and have at least my share of scars.

At the moment, I count two permanent scars. One happened so long ago, I has no conscious memory and it has no emotional weight for me. It's in a prominent place, but thankfully is not terribly visible. People seem to not notice unless I draw their attention to it. The other permanent mark is in a less prominent place, and also seems to be illusive to the observer even when it is pointed out. Of course, it seems as if this always happens in poor light, so that may play into it.

There are a couple of temporary (I hope) marks in addition. One remains from an incident helping someone move, and is so faint now that I could almost say that it's already gone. No one would believe me by looking at it when I say it's there. The other is much more visible, and lies in a prominent place near one of the permanent scars. It has been much remarked upon, but is fading, and will soon be gone, God willing. It's one that I especially don't care for.

Common to most of the marks and scars that have marred my body at one time or another is a lousy story that reflects poorly upon me. There aren't any from noble combat or harrowing criminal assaults. They generally tell of my carelessness, thoughtlessness and lack of any talent for self-preservation. Someday, of course, they will all be great stories that make me look awesome. It's just a question of whether others will forget the true accounts first or I will, and when.