Scars

Today the lovelies at YA Highway are asking:

What is the story of your best scar?

Thanks for asking! I really only have one scar, a reminder of a tragic preschool playground accident that nearly left me blind.

(I’m being melodramatic on purpose, lest you were wondering. There’s really nothing tragic about it, but, like many things on the internet, this story does work better if you try to read it in the voice of a Harlequin heroine. Good? Let’s proceed.)

Picture it, four-year-old me:

Sitting at a picnic table eating a hot dog, when all of a sudden the teacher announced that if we were done, we could go back on the playground. I wasn’t done, but I wanted to be first on the swings, of course! So I bolted up and raced over to the trash can. But then! Oh the horror! I tripped and dove face first into the side of the trash can, my poor, delicate skin flying directly into a metal prong that had swung loose and was now dangling precariously off the side of the trash can. It pierced the side of my face, a mere quarter inch from my right eye! I was whisked off to the hospital and rushed into emergency plastic surgery, but despite the heroic efforts of the best plastic surgeons Cincinnati, Ohio had to offer, I still have a faint scar. If you look closely, you can see it in this picture (but do please try to ignore that stupid look I have on my face):

The end. Wasn’t that a little more exciting than “I tripped and fell into a piece of metal, and I had to have plastic surgery when I was four?”

(And yes, I do realize I’m probably closer to two in that first picture. It was the only childhood picture I have already scanned into my computer, and sometimes you just gotta make do, you know?)

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