Wasn't sure at all why the thought of seeing it was freaking me out so much, because hell, I'm a Game of Thrones fan and have seen decapitations and worse and been completely fine. And yes, I know it's fiction and no one's really getting injured, but I was still worried about this one stupid scene.
Thankfully, a good friend is also watching the show and assured me that it really wasn't that bad. So I watched and yes, dear reader, it was completely fine. (Okay, so I watched from behind my fingers -- you know, like when you're watching a horror movie and hold your hand in front of your face to kind of hide what's going on on the screen. Not sure why that works, but it does LOL)
Anyhoo, I was thinking about that this morning while taking a shower and happened to be putting some sugar scrub on my right arm and shoulder and caught a glimpse of a scar I have on my shoulder. Oh, hey, dawning light. Lasting scars. Yup, I know about them.
My story is nowhere near as awful as the book/movie but it's mine. I was with my family at a family friends' house for dinner one night back when I was 9 or 10. I know it was before 5th grade as we moved away right before 5th grade and it hadn't just happened then. So maybe 3rd grade? We had finished dinner and my parents and their parents were in the kitchen while the kids were playing in the living room. I was wearing a wrap skirt and wanted to be a ballerina at the time, so I came dancing into the kitchen to show off my dance moves and twirls. But, as I made a twirl, my wrap skirt started to come apart. Ack. I twirled the other way to gather the skirt back up and twirled straight into my mom, who was turning from the kitchen stove with a freshly brewed pot of coffee in her hand. I knocked into her arm (not her fault at all -- entirely mine and that damn wrap skirt) and the coffee spilled straight onto my right shoulder. Yup, ouch.
Thankfully, my memories of after that have faded quite a bit over the years, but I do remember screaming in their bathroom off the kitchen as my mom (who's a nurse) put cold water on the burn to soothe it before we rushed to the ER, and I remember something about being in the hospital and the mention of skin grafts -- although I don't know if I actually needed a skin graft or if it was mentioned that I didn't need one.
I also remember not wanting to wear a tank top nor a bathing suit without a shirt on top of it for years upon years after because I felt so hideous with this quarter-sized raised red scar on my shoulder. I wouldn't even let my then BFF see the scar three years later after I'd moved to the new town for Dad's new job and I was having a sleepover. I felt like a monster.
So, yeah, anything that mentions "lasting scar" is apparently a bit of a trigger for me. Oof. Now, all these years later, I only rarely think of the scar. It's faded over time to be the color of the rest of my shoulder -- although it's a bit pink today. It must know I'm thinking about it. ;) It's still there (of course) but I happily have been sporting tank tops for years without giving it a second thought. Time really does heal all wounds.
As for coffee, that smell from that moment turned me off to coffee so much that I never drank coffee until about 4 years ago. I'd never realized until just today that there might have been a reason for that because the smell of the coffee made me think for so long about the scar. I probably would have gone on never drinking coffee except that an old friend knew I loved pumpkin everything and that my office at the time had a Keurig machine, so he sent some pumpkin spice K-cups to me at the office. I couldn't not try them after that so I had one and put a toooon of creamer in it. And I really liked it. That moved on to French Vanilla coffee with loads of french vanilla creamer and milk, and now I'm where I actually prefer it more as a regular coffee with a bit more milk but no sugar whatsoever. Guess that affiliation has also been busted in my head.
And now, dear reader, I'm taking myself to the lake to sit and read. :) And yes, I'll be wearing a tank top.
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