Scars.  Those permanent marks left on our skin as a result of some kind of injury.

Every one of our scars tell a story.

That jagged one on your knee from a trip on the pavement.  The large one on your arm from getting too close to a hot iron.  The perfectly round ones dotting your back like a constellation, a memento from childhood chickenpox.

Who hasn’t swapped scar stories?

My kids display their new wounds with the flair of Vanna White, accompanying it with an elaborate story.  When my kids awake one morning to find that the evidence has faded, there’s relief in their eyes, but also nostalgia.  As if they wanted proof that they’ve had an adventure.

Prior to my surgery a few weeks ago, I only had two permanent scars that had a history woven in them.

I have a two-inch horizontal crater below my right knee that I earned in graduate school.  A result of walking a 110-pound malamute in a park with a retractable leash which got caught around my leg when he tore off to harass a pug.

And then there’s my c-section scars, which most of the time I have forgotten about.  Partly because they’re hidden by underwear and hair, but mostly because they signify two beautiful babies that mean the world to me.

Now I’m armed (no pun intended) with a new story.  One of age and injury and (hopefully) recovery.

My shoulder surgery stitches were taken out last week.  All in all, a total of about 10 stitches were removed.  Including five from that arm coochie.

When I expressed my concern to the nurse, she assured me that the biceps tendon incision will flatten out at some point, but it probably won’t ever go away.

I will be stuck with these marks on my arm for a while.  And I can’t even tell you how much that depresses me.

I don’t have much going on in the way of physique.  I refuse to wear tights or yoga pants because I am embarrassed at the size and chunkiness of my thighs and butt.  My abs have seen better days.  My hair and skin is a roulette wheel of inconsistency.

But my arms?  I was always able to rely on my arms.  They looked strong and athletic.  They were the feature I could feel proud to show off.

Now, I’m embarrassed to wear a tank top.  I look at my closet, filled with spaghetti string dresses and halter tops and think there’s no way I’ll be able to wear them again.

Perhaps I’m making a bigger deal out of this.  Sure, this is vanity and ego speaking.  When I’m all healed and can finally raise my arm above my head or swim with my kids without pain, perhaps I won’t give a shit about some silly scars on my arms.

After my dad and I had a conversation about how bummed I was that I had this big scar on my arm, he sent me a photo of someone who’d taken advantage of their incision line.

They tattooed Darth Vader around the scar, using the scar line as his light saber.

I thought it was brilliant, and proceeded to waste hours Googling the heck out of this idea.

Some of the results were fascinating. Some were mildly .  Some were not suitable for work or kids.  All of them trying to marry wounds with artwork and beauty.

I love the idea behind it.  That someone would take something that might signify a traumatic point in their life and turn it into something that feels more like themselves, enhancing the history and story of that scar.  Perhaps the permanent scar was not intentional, but the permanence of that tattoo was their choice.

Will I really get a tattoo?  No.  As embarrassed as I might be to wear the tank tops I used to feel good in, I’m not that big on ink.

But man, wouldn’t Princess Leia wielding a light saber on my arm make for a pretty damn good story?

Do you have any scars?  What do they say about you and your personal history?  Do you hide them under clothing or show them off with pride?

 

Whether you have scars or not, I’d love to hear from you.  Follow Full Of It on , or yet?