That's just perfect

I just read about Megan Fox's clubbed thumb. Awesome.



And I already knew about Tina's Fey's scar. Fabulous.



These women make no excuses or attempts to hide their flaws. In fact, they barely acknowledge them.

I'm scarred, too.

No, not mentally. Although, God knows that's the truth. I’m referring to my physical scar. Can you see it?



That’s right. It’s just above my lip on my left hand side. I was two years old when my older sister, Lisa, pretended to be a horse and beckoned me to climb onto her back. As any self-respecting, Bonanza watching four-year old would do, she bucked this rider and I went flying into the corner of a table.

The result was a trip to the emergency room; stitches for me and an ass beating for her. Since the year was 1968, I was likely stitched back together with a rusty sewing needle and the resulting scar is my penance for acting like a two-year old.

For all the different levels of angst and insecurity I've felt over the years, I’m surprisingly unaffected by a scar right on my face. I’ve only had person ever ask me about it on a date and he blurted it out in a fit of nervous chatter somewhere between the salad and the main course during our first meal together.

I actually think it makes my face a little more interesting.

But then, I'm the one attracted to the guy with the crooked smile or the funky cowlick in his hair. And I think the woman with the space between her teeth or the oddly placed mole is beautiful in such a unique way.

Let's face it. Perfection is overrated.


And more than a little boring. So I'll keep my scar.

And my chubby dog:



And my hyperextended fingers:



And we'll be just fine.