Scars, Or My Lack Thereof

I've been thinking about this a lot recently because it comes up a lot in conversations with many different people.

Many people are shocked when I reveal to them that I have no scars. I actually have two little ones: one I got from shaving my legs in high school, the other when I cut my arm on a massage chair at Bed, Bath, and Beyond (don't ask). However, both of these scars have faded so much that it's almost impossible to find them. Yes, my skin is the bomb.

I wasn't the kind of child to do things that could potentially hurt me; I'm still not. I refused to join my brothers in jumping off our back porch when we were kids. The first time I fell while attempting to learn to ride a two-wheeler was the last time I rode a bike. I didn't climb trees, and I didn't do too much of playing outside (I live on the south side of the Chi for God's sake).

I've always been the kind of girl who stayed inside and read, wrote, or watched television. I played usually by myself, unless you counted my Barbie dolls. That's just how I was; and it's still how I am.

And I don't feel like I missed out on anything. I hold no regrets about it. My childhood, despite other issues and problems, didn't leave me in want or yearning for the things my peers did that I "missed out on." I knew who I was at a young age, and still hold these tendencies now. They've helped me and saved me.

I have basically no scars. I've never broken a bone. Since I was born, I've never spent the night at a hospital for any reason. I've never been rushed to an ER. And I don't brag on these things or think I'm better than anyone else for it.

It's simply the truth. And I don't regret it at all.