Beneath My Skin
Splinters. Paper cuts. Stubbed toes. Microscopic, and yet, so chillingly painful. Each has the distinct power to, with one prick, consume our every thought and action. Luckily, these pests are, for the most part, a thing of our past. They are childhood “boo-boos.” It was when we were young and careless that we would almost too excitedly flip to the next page. We would dig our hands into the tanbark in search of the piece that would serve as sidewalk chalk. And our toes would, without fail, interrupt the door’s journey from open to closed. I remember the countless nights I would yelp in pain as my mom squeezed my finger with one hand and picked at an embedded splinter with the other. I remember the urgency with which I would cry out for a band-aid just moments after practically ripping to the next page of my Bailey School Kids book (was Big Foot indeed a square-dancer?). I remember hobbling around for a week after skipping into our brick fireplace.
Today, I am hard pressed to remember when exactly I last experienced a splinter or a paper cut. Ironically, this dearth doesn’t make me as content as it probably should. While I don't necessarily wish to relive the catastrophic and unbearably painful experience that is a paper cut, I do wish to relive the spontaneity and carelessness that shrouded our childhood actions. The fact that I haven’t gotten a splinter or paper cut in years gives way to only one conclusion -- I must be growing up. I must have forced myself to be more calm and composed. Less spastic. Those overly excited squirrel-on-speed moments just milliseconds before the prick, cut, or stub are now foreign to me. I am a young adult. I am to daintily lick my finger in an effort to safely turn to the next page of the novel. Tanbark is lucky to be an acquaintance, and well, our brick fireplace was replaced during remodeling.
Confession: I miss the splintered-papercut-stubbed years. The years when everything was so simple and really, the worst thing that could happen was that I got a splinter. With the perks of growing up comes the unfortunate burden of responsibility for our actions, always. And it is with this realization that I’ve reevaluated my childhood aversion to splinters and paper cuts. As a young adult who must face the consequences of her decisions on a daily basis, I must admit that there is a certain romantic quality to paper cuts and splinters, and even the stubbed toe once in a while.
Today, I am hard pressed to remember when exactly I last experienced a splinter or a paper cut. Ironically, this dearth doesn’t make me as content as it probably should. While I don't necessarily wish to relive the catastrophic and unbearably painful experience that is a paper cut, I do wish to relive the spontaneity and carelessness that shrouded our childhood actions. The fact that I haven’t gotten a splinter or paper cut in years gives way to only one conclusion -- I must be growing up. I must have forced myself to be more calm and composed. Less spastic. Those overly excited squirrel-on-speed moments just milliseconds before the prick, cut, or stub are now foreign to me. I am a young adult. I am to daintily lick my finger in an effort to safely turn to the next page of the novel. Tanbark is lucky to be an acquaintance, and well, our brick fireplace was replaced during remodeling.
Confession: I miss the splintered-papercut-stubbed years. The years when everything was so simple and really, the worst thing that could happen was that I got a splinter. With the perks of growing up comes the unfortunate burden of responsibility for our actions, always. And it is with this realization that I’ve reevaluated my childhood aversion to splinters and paper cuts. As a young adult who must face the consequences of her decisions on a daily basis, I must admit that there is a certain romantic quality to paper cuts and splinters, and even the stubbed toe once in a while.
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