Scarred for life
As much as I enjoyed our vacation, I was a little worried about some environmental factors affecting the trip. When we arrived on Saturday, it was absolutely scorching, and the ocean provided little relief because it was (a) low tide, which meant we had to wade out miles just to get up to our torsos and (b) filled with disgusting little jellyfish pieces -- not whole jellyfish that would sting us, but sweater-lint-sized pieces that were annoying and yucky and just gross. They were still there on Sunday, and the weather was still hot and sticky.
On Monday, the rains came in the late morning -- it started sprinkling and Smelmooo and I returned home from our walk into Belmar for Dunkin Donuts, although, sadly, we found no beerpong), and they didn't let really let up until Tuesday night. There was a brief reprieve on Tuesday morning -- I got up early and went for a run on the boardwalk, and the skies opened up when I was at the farthest point from home, so by the time I made it back I was the only person on the streets and was soaked from head to toe (although, as an old man hollered to me when I was about 4 blocks from home, "We needed the rain!"). My mother called and told me I'd inherited my dad's mom's knack for bringing bad weather along with me to the beach.
On Wednesday, however, the weather turned bright and beautiful, not overly hot, and the rains seemed to have swept the vermin out of the ocean, which now boasted perfect tides and medium-rough conditions. We spent the whole day lying on the beach, reading and sleeping in the sun.
Wednesday was also the day that we started to run low on sunscreen, and I did only a haphazard job of applying it to my uber-pasty skin. I made rookie mistakes despite more than two decades of strict adherence to regular sunscreen application: I missed the backs of my knees; a large patch on the front of each thigh a one-inch stripe across my entire lower back, just above the top of my bathing suit bottom; and huge spots just below the bottom of my bathing suit bottom. I also know I put sunscreen under my bathing suit straps, but didn't reapply sufficiently after carrying our beach bag from the house and shifting the straps around throughout the day, so I had some red lines, front and back, along my white-white strap marks.
In short, I was not a pretty sight.
I slathered on lotion at every opportunity to prevent peeling, and as I did so, studying the weird patterns on my flesh, I started also noticing the little -- and not so little -- scars I've acquired over the years, which pop out more when I've gotten some sun.
I mentioned to Minnams a few months ago that it's really lonely being sick -- and I was sick a lot growing up, although luckily I'm an incredibly healthy adult so far. But the aftermath of being sick and injured, the scars -- the run-of-the-mill ones, anyway, not huge life-altering ones -- seem to spark conversations, create connections, bring stories to the surface along with the hard white splotches. Here is the rundown of my scars:
-- Two small ones on my toes, and another small one on my belly, from the chicken pox when I was six; I discovered them -- the initial spots, not the scars -- on the plane to Disney World.
-- Five scars around my abdomen from my gallbladder surgery when I was 16. Thank goodness for laporoscopic surgery and Vitamin E, because they're barely noticeable now unless you're (a) looking for them or (b) feeling around my belly, which you shouldn't ever be.
-- A pencil-eraser-sized scar on my right knee from a vicious wart I had in junior high (okay, maybe that one isn't an interesting story, and it's pretty gross, but a major scar that I figured needed a mention).
-- A long thin scar on my right shin from falling at a frat party when I visited Jenny sophomore year at Tufts. I wasn't drunk at the time; I was clumsy, and there was a gap between elevated surfaces, into which I of course fell. It was not a pretty sight, and still isn't, but it makes me think of Jenny, which is a nice consolation.
-- An inchworm-like purple scar at the top of my left ring finger -- both front and back -- acquired when I slammed my finger in the trunk of the Smelmooo's car more than two years ago. We had just gotten back from dinner with Seth and Leslie, and I still don't quite know how I managed to catch my finger in there, but it hurt like heck and I was bleeding all over the place, and all I could think of was "Oh my god; they're going to have to lop off half of my finger, I'll never be able to wear an engagement ring." Fortunately, Seth was thinking more clearly -- about me, I hope, and probably also about his new carpet -- and hooked me up expertly with gauze and bandages, which he fortunately also sent home with me, because it didn't stop bleeding until the next night. But the finger remains attached, and although I'll never be a hand model, the engagement and wedding rings look just fine on it.
On Monday, the rains came in the late morning -- it started sprinkling and Smelmooo and I returned home from our walk into Belmar for Dunkin Donuts, although, sadly, we found no beerpong), and they didn't let really let up until Tuesday night. There was a brief reprieve on Tuesday morning -- I got up early and went for a run on the boardwalk, and the skies opened up when I was at the farthest point from home, so by the time I made it back I was the only person on the streets and was soaked from head to toe (although, as an old man hollered to me when I was about 4 blocks from home, "We needed the rain!"). My mother called and told me I'd inherited my dad's mom's knack for bringing bad weather along with me to the beach.
On Wednesday, however, the weather turned bright and beautiful, not overly hot, and the rains seemed to have swept the vermin out of the ocean, which now boasted perfect tides and medium-rough conditions. We spent the whole day lying on the beach, reading and sleeping in the sun.
Wednesday was also the day that we started to run low on sunscreen, and I did only a haphazard job of applying it to my uber-pasty skin. I made rookie mistakes despite more than two decades of strict adherence to regular sunscreen application: I missed the backs of my knees; a large patch on the front of each thigh a one-inch stripe across my entire lower back, just above the top of my bathing suit bottom; and huge spots just below the bottom of my bathing suit bottom. I also know I put sunscreen under my bathing suit straps, but didn't reapply sufficiently after carrying our beach bag from the house and shifting the straps around throughout the day, so I had some red lines, front and back, along my white-white strap marks.
In short, I was not a pretty sight.
I slathered on lotion at every opportunity to prevent peeling, and as I did so, studying the weird patterns on my flesh, I started also noticing the little -- and not so little -- scars I've acquired over the years, which pop out more when I've gotten some sun.
I mentioned to Minnams a few months ago that it's really lonely being sick -- and I was sick a lot growing up, although luckily I'm an incredibly healthy adult so far. But the aftermath of being sick and injured, the scars -- the run-of-the-mill ones, anyway, not huge life-altering ones -- seem to spark conversations, create connections, bring stories to the surface along with the hard white splotches. Here is the rundown of my scars:
-- Two small ones on my toes, and another small one on my belly, from the chicken pox when I was six; I discovered them -- the initial spots, not the scars -- on the plane to Disney World.
-- Five scars around my abdomen from my gallbladder surgery when I was 16. Thank goodness for laporoscopic surgery and Vitamin E, because they're barely noticeable now unless you're (a) looking for them or (b) feeling around my belly, which you shouldn't ever be.
-- A pencil-eraser-sized scar on my right knee from a vicious wart I had in junior high (okay, maybe that one isn't an interesting story, and it's pretty gross, but a major scar that I figured needed a mention).
-- A long thin scar on my right shin from falling at a frat party when I visited Jenny sophomore year at Tufts. I wasn't drunk at the time; I was clumsy, and there was a gap between elevated surfaces, into which I of course fell. It was not a pretty sight, and still isn't, but it makes me think of Jenny, which is a nice consolation.
-- An inchworm-like purple scar at the top of my left ring finger -- both front and back -- acquired when I slammed my finger in the trunk of the Smelmooo's car more than two years ago. We had just gotten back from dinner with Seth and Leslie, and I still don't quite know how I managed to catch my finger in there, but it hurt like heck and I was bleeding all over the place, and all I could think of was "Oh my god; they're going to have to lop off half of my finger, I'll never be able to wear an engagement ring." Fortunately, Seth was thinking more clearly -- about me, I hope, and probably also about his new carpet -- and hooked me up expertly with gauze and bandages, which he fortunately also sent home with me, because it didn't stop bleeding until the next night. But the finger remains attached, and although I'll never be a hand model, the engagement and wedding rings look just fine on it.
1 Comments:
I can definitely relate to the sunscreen mishaps...it's always fun to be white with red splotches (happened to me last weekend also). :) I almost completely forgot about your finger getting smashed by the car. You barely flinched when it happened, what a tough gal!
-Leslie
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