Wednesday, January 05, 2005
After examining the grey hairs on Peter Jennings' head this evening I contemplated the one grey hair on mine. It sprouts from the left side and back about one-point-five inches at temple level. No one ever sees this testament to my sagacity unless I plow around and find it to show off. I covet grey streaks, such as Beth Atteberry's or Mrs. Peters', but instead this lone hair gives me little to be dramatic about- how much stress does one have if one only has one grey hair? It provides little material on which I can base a solid rant.
Some bodily scars I appreciate more than others. For instance, at my hips and the tops of my legs lie stretch marks from the weight I gained during and after high school- these are no bueno. Above the heels at the back of both legs are humongous gashes from shaving of which I am not particularly fond, either- people who see my ankles must think me either a cutter or severely handicapped.
The scars across my hands give them a distinctive character: a bungling character. When I was eight The Father bought a soccer ball. When the family kicked it around the back yard for the first time it got stuck in the dirt/clay hole under our turtle sandbox. Not being foot-coordinated I stooped with my hand to pry the ball loose, and as The Father reached in with his bare foot he scraped a hole in my finger with his talons. That is a "sticky-outie' scar.
The first time it snowed in Missouri last year I slipped on the ice in my aunt and uncle's driveway as I walked out to the Buick for work one morning. Three or four abrasive marks to my right thumb at the bottom knuckle attest to the experience, which my aunt said later she would have laughed at had she been there to see it. She also laughed when I told her about the gash between my first and second knuckles I received one afternoon as I uncapped the Buick's gas tank. That car was feisty. I was too nervous ever to check its oil.
The Fuddruckers scars are my favourites, though- the giant burn, the line burn (from a hot bun pan), and the hole. The razor sharp shake machine poked a hole in the side of my arm as I cleaned the mixer the week before I stopped working last summer. Next to it a mosquito bite I scratched furiously left a permanent impression as well; the two together look like a love mark from a blind vampire.
The Megabitch clawed my left hand during a domestic altercation when we were twelve and ten. Michael dug flesh out of my left forearm on exactly three separate occasions. I was abused by my own siblings. When I threw things at them, I never left any permanent marks (possibly because my launchings rarely reached their intended target). Now I walk around campus internally yearning for someone to challenge me to a knife fight- a slash mark across my cheek would look fantastically mysterious, like James' lightning-bolt.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 6:41 PM]