A very good friend of mine recently told me the tale of her son’s position on a few new scars he received. Chicks dig scars. To which my answer was, chicks only dig scars so long as you’re still alive to explain them. Now these particular scars were received in a way most of us wouldn’t dream of facing — while serving his country. So in that case I would have to say that chicks would most certainly dig those scars!

Scars can represent many different things. For some they are a badge of honour. A perminent medal etched on the body, showcasing true bravery. For others, scars are reminders of things gone wrong. And for some, it’s a little of both.

Scars are just tattoos with better stories.

There is always a tale to be told. Scars can be highly visible, or hidden deep inside. New, angry red welts, or pale faded marks. There are those who show their scars off — advertise to the world they did something worth talking about. While others take great care to hide their scars. Burying them under clothes or behind distracting tattoos.

Emotionally, scars can represent the end of the rainbow or the entrance to hell. Seeing them is an instant reminder of what could have been, or what once was. A wrong decision. A bad call. A mistake. Or a simple accident. Your fault…or someone elses. An act of evil, or the hand of God.

To me, as a writer, scars represent stories unwriten. Untold adventures into deep jungles. Action packed rescues. Got a good gash on your leg when you fell off your bike? Pfft. Shark attack sounds much cooler. Cracked your head open because you didn’t see the basement beam? Tell ‘em you stopped a mugging.

They never believe me…

In my case, the scars are already a story of their own. I broke my leg 8 weeks ago. And of course, I couldn’t just break it, I had to snap my ankle bone off and break both the fibula and tibia. It required surgury to put a screw in my ankle bone and a plate on my fibula. Yay for titanium! Now that the cast is off, people take one look at my swolen leg and the beautiful red tracks from my surgury and exclaim “Holy shit! What the hell did you do to yourself?”

So far I haven’t needed to say anything other than the truth because for some reason, being 5’2″ and telling people you broke your leg in 3 places playing ice hockey with the guys gets the best reaction. They either give me the double eyebrow raised, incredulous squeaking response of “ice hockey?” (Yes, that is what I said, doofus…) Or they just nod and smile with the “and that’s exactly why girls shouldn’t play hockey” look.

Almost as good as the “are you crazy” look I get when I tell everyone I plan on getting back on skates as soon as possible. There’s quite a few guys I need to run into the boards, yet.

So Annie, tell those boys to show ‘em off! And I agree — shoot first, as questions later. Hugs!