Nothing Sexier Than A Scar
Scars have gotten a bad reputation - mostly for looking menacing and being cosmetically undesirable. But if you can get beyond those little details, they are actually really quite sexy. Scars have a story; they have personality because they're stuck with you indefinitely (if not for life) and everyone wants to know how you got them. Chances are, if you have a scar, you have a story. Hopefully it's not something like "I cut myself shaving" (and if it is, I'd hope you'd be able to jazz it up a little bit, like "I cut myself shaving...on my way to Bangladesh!" It's just an example.)
I'm prone to scars, as my disposition is to be as needlessly rough-and-tumble as possible. My body has bruises all over that I can't necessarily trace back to the original source, spare a few. The first scar is on my tummy below my belly button; my first cat, Simba, scratched me while we were lying on the couch, the day before my mom told me I was going to have a little brother. The second one is on my leg and ribs from when I flipped over the handlebars of my bike while drinking a slushi (the slushi made it out in pristine condition sitting innocently next to my mangled body). The third was from earlier this year, on my forearm, when Victoria and I stole a pylon and a tire off the road in an attempt to commit petty vandalism...against each others houses. The fourth happened when I cut my self shaving my legs...on my way to the hottest date of my life (we are no longer seeing each other). My latest scar is perhaps the one I'm most proud of.
My university career was nothing but easy; it was the most grueling uphill battle that has defined my life, half against my will. So, why should I expect my convocation to be any less of an uphill battle. I was running a tad late due to traffic, and in addition to the sweltering heat, my frazzled nature was met with more sweat than usual. I could take it - not even a little sweat was going to ruin this day that, for 5 years, I had ruined my mental health for. I parked on the road, and ran to the parking meter to pay. BOOM. MAXIMUM TIME. BOOYAH. I put the slip on the dashboard (I must have been looking Fine, like a ticket on the dash, because I got one later that day for $30, but not even THAT would ruin my day). As I sprinted in my blanged out high heels, they SNAPPED, which led to this:
Which led to me wearing THESE:
the sandals I was giving to goodwill because they were always way too small for my feet, which, in turn, led to THIS:
I don't know who to blame for this catastrophe: The Shoe Company, University of Toronto, or myself for being naive enough to think I could, like a real woman, walk in high heels in the big city. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that the scar-to-be is symbollic because marks my journey and entrance into adulthood, and I felt it cutting into me as I hobbled up those cruel steps - curling my toes in so that they weren't hanging over the edge of the sandals - to shake the Chancellors hand, and on my way to receive my sexy, sexy degree. (I've named her Veronica. She was a pain in the ass to get, and super high-maintenance, but now that I have her she's the best trophy ever).
So I have this theory that scars are sexier than tattoos because you have them, not because your trying to be badass, but because you are inherently badass; you got it in the process of being a badass. This time, I didn't get my scar from falling off a motorcycle, or being a daredevil, or saving someone's life. I got it on my way to be celebrated for being smart. My feet have clocked a lot of miles; 23 years worth of sightseeing and adventures of all kinds. Those few steps I took to graduate, even with the bloody mess on the back of my heel, were my favourite thus far. I think this is my sexiest scar yet.