Burns and bruises

I had one of those moments this morning where I was immeasurably glad that I am an adult, and have grown into a woman I’m proud to be.

When I was younger, I consistently felt like a hulking monster compared to all my petite, cutesy friends. One morning in middle school a good friend told me she had burned herself, and I told her I had too. Mid-commiseration I realized she meant that she had burned her forehead while curling her hair. I, of course, had burned my arm on the stove.

This said to me: “She’s pretty. I’m a lardass.”

Since then I’ve scarred myself on hot baking pans at a Lebanese restaurant, cut myself badly while washing a pilsner glass, and been hit in the stomach with hot oil because I was cooking in my underwear. (It gets hot in the kitchen.)

This morning I cut myself while dicing cucumber for lunch: Greek salad and orzo with caramelized onions. As I rummaged through my first aid kit I felt relieved to remember that I am, and always have been, the kind of woman who is more likely to sustain injuries making a good meal than in front of her mirror.

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