How I've Scarred Myself For Life

What's that a picture of, you ask? Well, I'll tell ya.  On Saturday night, I got a little ahead of myself while steaming rice.  Instead of using my tongs to lift the foil from the pan, I used my fingers.  Stupid, stupid.  And I got the lovely burn you see above.  Rob was sweet enough to run out and get some burn spray and gauze to wrap them - yes, I cried, but he also brought me chocolates so that made me feel better.

So it's funny that one of Mama Kat's writing prompts this week is "scarred".  Because I'm fairly sure that sucker's gonna leave a scar.

But then again, that's sorta par for the course with me.  I scar easily and happen to be insanely clumsy.  It's like the perfect storm of potential bodily damage.

Starting from the bottom up...well, there's a round scar on the big toe of my left foot.  Why no picture? Because I haven't gotten an actual pedicure since the last month that started with "A".  Moving on.  That little beauty was acquired when I was around 4 or 5 years old.  My mom let me sit on the front step with her in my bare feet.  My nemesis, Jimmy, came by with his mom.  Jimmy was taunting me and I wanted to chase after him and beat him up, but my feet were bare and it was concrete as far as the eye could see.  My mom told me to stay put while she got my shoes.  Yeah, right.  The second she was in the house I took off running.  I got maybe two houses down before I fell and somehow managed to get a tiny stone lodged in my toe.  You read that right.  The stone is gone but the scar lingers on and reminds me to always listen to my mom.

Both shins are covered in diagonal scars.  They come from falling down the back steps...twice.  Back in the day, those steps were made of the old concrete that was full of stones (are we sensing a pattern with me and concrete and stones?), and those stones left me with the little scars up and down my legs today.  Why no picture? Because they're faint and, well...I need to shave my legs.  I love y'all, but if I don't shave my legs every day for my husband...you get my point.

There's a 2-inch scar on the underside of my left arm from when I was cooking for Easter last year and was quickly reaching into a cabinet...with a very sharp cornered door.  Almost a year later, Rob still asks me from time to time where that scar comes from.  Uh, it comes from the fact that the kitchen evidently needs to be Jen-proofed.  Duh.

There's a few faint scars on my decolletage from a huge oil spatter while frying potato pancakes in a tank top.  Instant blistering.  It was monstrous.  Oh, and it was my birthday.  Happy birthday to me.

Oddly, there are no scars on my face.  Knock wood.  Knock wood.

And those are just the biggies.  The major guys.  There are a multitude of other little ones here and there.  All of them compose the road map of my life...my clumsy, clumsy life.  For better or worse.  Well, Rob doesn't seem to mind.  That's all that matters.

Do YOU have a story for every scar? Or are you lucky enough to not have as many as me? ;-)