My Smoking Hot Love Biscuit was seven when he approached the colt from behind, halter in hand. He emphasizes that the incident was his fault, not the horse’s. The hind kick tore his lip and the surrounding acreage yielding a skin cavern sewn together by nineteen stiches and held fast for over five decades.
When SHLB tells the story, I focus hard to see the scar. It’s been part of his landscape since I met him as are his cappuccino eyes and pepper hair, just now salting along the temple line. I’m not blind to the flaw since it’s part of the scenery. It represents a fraction of the intricate algebraic equation that produces the sum of all that is him.
Without the trace of that kick and the conversation around that horse, I might not fully understand SHLB’s compassion for animals, reflected when he lifts our old dog on and off the bed in the middle of the night. I’m not sure if the clothes make the man, but the scars make mine.
This rumination about blemishes has led me to a definitive conclusion and I have a declaration to make. Perfection is overrated. Optics, as it’s frequently called, give the right of way to external forces for the driving of decisions and behaviors. If I stage my life as I might a house I was trying to sell, I dilute to a plastic version of what was once unique and human. The melting pot shifting from Brunswick stew to unsweetened apple sauce, poured into molds and efficiently packaged for distribution. How good am I when I am distinctly the same?
If you drove the terrain of my body in a Match Box car, you could read the map of my topography. The rumble strip across my left cheek is from the lancing of an infection and the small cul-de-sac on my nose from a dermatological scraping. Just below my left nostril is a small line created by the trifecta of bad decisions involving Tito’s, a disco ball, and deck boards.
Take 95 south to just above my belly button and you will find three exits. One is a childhood scar from crossing a barbwire fence while in pursuit of my brother starring in the role of cowboy. The other two are from a precise surgeon removing sections of the inner loop also known as my small intestine. The little soldiers lining up along my obliques are where the robotic arms and microscopes served as part of the demolition crew. I like those little guys. Medical science laid down solid tracks.
There’s a scar down near my own private Miami where a blonde baby emerged by c-section and lots of permanent marks on the knees of a runner prone to falling.
The half-moon on my calf is from being stabbed by a wine glass during a bar fight with the dishwasher. Do not try this at home. The jagged dagger wielded by falling stemware is no joking matter.
The scar on my foot is from a three-wheeler accident. I was riding too fast, without shoes, on a dirt road in a race with a Chevy Cavalier. Youth is wasted on the stupid.
There’s a scar on my lower back caused by same brother pushing me out of a rusty swing and then threatening me not to tattle. It’s a bad scar, the years have turned it dark and puffy. (I should have tattled.) When medical professionals assume that I had lumbar surgery, I laugh and tell them, “Nah, it’s from barely surviving my childhood.” In truth, that scar makes me happy as it reminds me of the summers running wild on our farm and in the neighboring woods, the world anything that our imaginations created. We were the Google. We were the optics. We unabashedly, were.
I am feeling cautious here as I close out these ideas. I am not suggesting not to be the best. Every damn day, I aspire to be a better version of myself. I am push towards being the Emily that I was designed to be. My hope is that it’s my idea and not someone else’s, not the directive of the world.
Consider how it feels to listen to live music or joyfully watch a high school marching band misstep and recover the beat. Experience the love for a broken seashell because of the texture and color and pattern, tumbled smooth by all that is tide and sand. The flaws tell the stories and the stories chisel the road through wildflowers, potholes, and changing seasons. The road is mine until I fall in behind every pilot car and follow the others.
It is true that if I cover my scars it will be easier to fit into the shape of the planet, but the long-term price of acquiescing my soul exceeds the short-term gain of being like the rest.
This is superb! I love your descriptive use of Match box cars and roads. As a Mother of sons I’ve had them run over my body many times. Keep sharing these feelings with us; we need to read them.