Frazzled Marc, half way through my 40s!

Frazzled Marc, half way through my 40s!
Frazzled Marc, half way through my 40s!

Thursday, March 28, 2013

These are the Scars of Our Lives

Scars: the deep or raised marks which tell tales of our bodies.  When men have scars, it is deemed rough, sexy, and mysterious. Guys show off their scars proudly recounting harrowing events such as fights or injuries usually involving blood loss at some point. Think Joaquin Phoenix or Harrison Ford.  Uh, not me. LOL

Women with scars do not have the same luxury.  They are seen as detrimental to beauty and in need of being covered up. Such is the sad state of our superficial society.

I was looking at my hand the other day and came across an old scar on my palm where it meets the middle finger. When I was seven, my family was visiting family friends, the Grants, on their farm in the South Jersey countryside. We kids were out in one of their small barns where the eldest teenage daughter, Debbie was showing us their dogs.

I put my hand out to pet a large Doberman in a gated pen when the mean old dog chomped down on my hand puncturing it with one of its fangs.  I screamed, Debbie was mortified, and that was the end of the fun for the evening. Luckily for me, all I needed was a butterfly stitch. The tetanus shot actually hurt more than the dog bite. To this day I still feel worse for Debbie than for me! She was so upset.

When I had the chicken pox, Mom told me not to scratch as Moms always do. Did any of us ever listen? I had three small pock scars going down the side of my nose as if they were circular steps, each one beneath the other. They have faded so much now that only I can see the light remmants of them.

One day in my teens years, while bike riding home in Wenonah, I learned a hard lesson that I shouldn't pretend to "skid out."  I fell hard on the pavement and slid for about 5 feet on my forearm. Mom painfully picked gravel and sand out of my skin for hours. The rest had to grow out. I was still having gravel poke through my skins weeks later. That scar was deep and white for about 15 years.

Thankfully, I was on the light end of the acne scarring. My teen years were seemed constantly riddled with acne. I never thought my face would clear up.  There are only a couple of faded reminders from that difficult time in high school.

On my senior trip, my class went to a water park down by Walt Disney World. All of my classmates' parents had sent sun block down with us. Did any of us actually wear it? NOPE! I ended up with one large blister from one end of my shoulders across my back to the other.  Others in my senior class had sun poisoning far worse.  After it scabbed up and the scabs fell off (ICK), I was left with freckles across my back which last to this day.

August of that summer in '88 my parents went away. I don't remember where, but it left my sister, brother, and I alone for the week. Can we say senior party! It was awesome, my big sister sprung for the keg, we bought something like two bags of chips, and about 200 people showed up from four separate high school classes. 

My brother and I attempted to keep control of our crazy classmates. Toothpaste tubes were squeezed out in the laundry baskets. Pizza was put in the microwave on "high" for two hours. Classmates were caught making out in the laundry room. Dad was still finding beer bottles in the bushes months later while raking leaves. It was a truly epic party.  My friends still say "Remember that party!?"

About ¾ of the way through the party, my sister and I went up to the local liquor store in Woodbury Heights to get a second keg when I walked into an automatic door and cracked my head open. I quickly put my wallet up to my head to stop the bleeding as I felt blood pouring down my face. The clerk was in shock as I was screaming "Where is the fucking bathroom!?" 

After a trip to the emergency room where I ordered the doctor to get me out of there in ½ hour due to having 200 people at my house, I was stitched up with 7 stitches leaving a nice scar running from the top of my nose upwards.  Once we got back to the house, we called the cops on our own party, opting to have them clear the house for us. Afterwards, 15 of our closest friends chilled while I nursed my head wound with multiple bottles of Bud.

My twenties with all the crazy partying were pretty uneventful in the scar department. I usually passed out before any damage could be done. I also realized that my physical fitness was better off contained in the gym instead of being outdoors, given my clumsy nature.

I did suffer a nasty cut on my forearm one winter evening. I was returning back with John from an antiques show when I sliced my forearm open with a pricey Civil War saber  It was the most expensive scar yet. It wasn't that bad though, just a white small scar I glance at almost every day.  I think Harrison Ford has several up on me in the scar department.

Scars. Mine aren't too sexy, but they do tell some interesting stories.

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