I am the Perfect Woman.
I’m fairly attractive, with a pleasing rack. You can tell your friends you’re sleeping with me and expect a thumbs up, rather than a disappointed shake of the head. However, I’m not so drop dead gorgeous that you’ll worry about me leaving you for a Gold Coast day trader, nor will I inspire bar fights. You will never get the shit kicked out of you at 2 in the morning because you feel obliged to defend my honor (and your masculinity) from the 200lb linebacker who grabbed my ass. No, because I am the perfect woman.
I was 7 years old when I skinned my knees for the very first time.
That may seem belated for juvenile scrapes and bruises, considering my younger brother was covered in abrasions pretty much from the time he he was 3. He fell out of trees a lot. But I was a quiet and studious child (translation: Unathletic Nerd), and managed to avoid any loss of epidermis until I was 7. I was riding my bike to a nearby doctor’s office for my weekly allergy shot (see: nerd), when I wiped out (see: unathletic). I skidded into what felt like a quarry, putting a magnificent end to an unscathed childhood. The scars remained on my formerly pristine knees for years, finally fading just in time for me to turn:
14 years old. My family moves to a farm in rural Nebraska, four miles from a town consisting of one block of Main street and a Dairy Queen. But hey, it was a hot summer day, and I was itching for an Oreo(tm) Blizzard(tm). So I mounted my hot pink splashed Huffy(tm) mountain bike and started the trek to town. I got halfway there before realizing I was ill prepared for the journey. Mainly because I forgot to bring hydrogen peroxide, bandages, or at least some tweezers to dig the rubble out of my lacerated flesh. Realizing that bikes and unpaved country roads don’t mix, and that bikes and I will never mix, I return home to stow away all shorts for almost a decade. I notice that I don’t bruise often, but I do bruise deep.
I am 21. Another warm summer day and I’m meeting friends at Hooter’s. I smile and wave as I see them sitting on the deck, happily anticipating 25 cent wings and $3 pitchers of beer. I revel in the sun on my shoulders and the gentle breeze ruffling my skirt as I cross the parking lot. I marvel at the stupendous nosedive I take when I don’t notice the concrete parking barrier in my path. Once again, I bid farewell to several inches of flesh. As I wrap my oozing joints in wet naps, I wonder if I actually have skin left at this point, or if my knees consist entirely of scar tissue now.
And this is the reason why, coming home from the bar at 3am last night, I faceplanted into my front steps, horribly abrading my lower extremities. It was destiny. I’m nearly 28, my exterior layers have been trauma free for far too long. It was absolutely unavoidable. Predestination. Such is my fortune and fate.
As for why I then fell into the rosebush…well, that was just because I was drunk.