A Bandaid-Filled Life

A confession first:  Internet, I shaved my legs for you.  There's something I never thought I'd say.

But I did it so I could show you this:

 

That's my legs today.  Both shins are scraped and if you look closely you can see a bruise above my left ankle.  There's another one behind it.   Nothing life threatening here.  Not even unusual, at least not if you're five.  What's embarrassing is that I'm far past five and my legs will look like this all summer, bumped and scraped in some form or another.  It's not even worth showing you my hands.  Suffice it to say my fingernails haven't seen polish in more years than I can remember.  Why bother, when they would be nicked before the end of the day? 

I could avoid all this if I took my exasperated husband's advice - "Be careful!" 

 

I don't want to.  I'm careful about the things that matter - I wear my seatbelt, I file my taxes on time, I don't leave potato salad out on the counter too long.  Life has enough rules.  But if no one gets hurt except me, I don't really care about being careful.  Careful isn't fun.  Ask any kid.

 

If I live to be eighty, I hope my legs still look like this.