I’m sorry, Environment. I admit I’m a long showerer. I recycle for You and use energy-saver lightbulbs, but I cannot get in and out of the shower in any fewer than 15 minutes. On a good day.
So today at about the halfway point of my long shower, Grandpaw and Dolly Parton went seriously berserk. Barking their little canine heads off. They were so ferocious I honestly started to get a little nervous that someone was breaking into the house. And suddenly, in the midst of their intimidating aural display, a shooting, burning pain zapped through my right calf. I instantly twisted around to look at it, thinking perhaps I’d nicked myself while shaving even though it really hurt more than that. But no, no razor nick. No blood. Just my usual leg with its perfectly shaped triangle scar.
Unlike some, I love 95% of my scars. There are one or two on my face that I might have laser resurfaced someday, but mostly, I like to be reminded of how Marta became Marta and scars are a nifty little roadmap to that end.
This particular scar – the calf triangle – is associated with one of my favorite histories.
About a year and a half ago, I was at MAGIC, hosting a series of segments for my old job. It was a true run-and-gun kind of shoot: just myself and a camera guy, running around the Las Vegas Convention Center for 2 days of blurry, breakneck shooting. Our last stop before racing to the airport to head back to LA was at the Chick by Nicky Hilton booth. We didn’t know if we were going to have enough time to get the interview and make the flight, but we had to try because, you know, Nicky Hilton is so huge and famous (or something like that, I’m told). Anyway, we were waiting in a line that wrapped around the booth with the other would-be interviewers when my triangle scar was singed into my leg forever.
There were little lights all around the base of the outside of the booth and apparently some Einstein hadn’t stopped to think about how surface-of-the-sun hot these little lights get and how someone might accidentally brush up against them. Like me. It was just a fraction of a second, but it left a hot, blistery burn that when it healed weeks later, left a perfectly shaped triangle.
So today when the dogs were barking, and my scar suddenly stung a lot at the exact same time, I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe Nicky Hilton is my Voldemort, perhaps she’s on the front steps right now and that’s why Gramps and Parton are losing their shit*.”
*Nope. Turns out it was just a bum rustling through the recycling.
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