Most of those dings came early in life. Back when I was young and stupid and didn't know any better. Now I am just old and stupid. Let's tally up the score so far:
- One fractured wrist/arm early on (playing "cannon ball" with my older brothers)
- Concussion in grade school
- Burned my arm (pulled a cup of coffee off of a TV tray)
- Tried to cut my finger off at the garden shop (almost succeeded)
- Fractured wrist (fell while walking Velvet)
- Broken toe (stepping over Shadow)
- Dislocated shoulder (prep run for half marathon)
The one that always gets revisited at family gatherings (aside of when my loving brothers broke my arm story) is when I tried my hand (finger) at gardening.
Hearken back to those days of yesteryear. Back before the internet, YouTube, Twitter and selfies. I was a young pup and still new to the world. I looked up to my brothers and tried to emulate them. One sunny spring afternoon, we all piled into the old Pontiac Catalina station wagon and drove to the garden center (nursery) to get some plants and flowers for our yard. Being all of 4 or 5, I went along for the ride. While in the garden center, my parents were off trying to buy some bush or flowers and left us to our own devices. My brothers, being more worldly and smarter than I. set out to explore the store. My eldest brother found this industrial can opener device that would open cans with some sort of church key contraption. He took several cans an commenced to "opening' them (translation: destroyed the cans). After a while, he became bored with such trivial matters and left the machine for other adventures. I saw an opportunity to take over for him on his mission of general mischief (monkey see, monkey do). While playing with the contraption, I failed to follow proper procedures (like keep out of the hands of children) and the soulless device did its task, which, basically chopped the end of my middle finger almost clean off and left me with a unique scar to this day. The event was traumatic. not so much for me but for my mom. I don't really recall the pain or the injury (aside of the sudden "aw shit" realization ) at the time but I do recall the the ride to the hospital. My dad, who never speeds or had any traffic tickets. driving like a bat out of hell getting us to the hospital. Riding in the front seat between mom and dad with my hand wrapped in towels and bandage and I was kept thinking how my mom was pissed (she wasn't). We made it to the hospital in time for the docs to sew my finger back on with minimal damage, just an unique scar to regal my descendants. Either the damage was not as severe as imagined or the docs were pretty damned good, but I was able to gain full feeling. The only lasting evidence was where they sutured it back on leaving me with a small scar that I will carry forever. They say that SCARs tell a story of life's lessons and I would agree. Life can be a rough game that is full of twists and turns. To me, a few scrapes along the way are just a measure of one's perseverance (or stupidity). Remember: a lot of memorable events were proceeded by the words: "Hey Bubba, watch this!"
To quote Shane Falco: Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory... lasts forever.