{30 in 30} chicks dig scars

Today I am going to tell you the story of one of my scars, as per Kristie’s request. I have A LOT of scars. I have what I would consider to be a “dude” level of scars. I was a tomboy growing up, I kept up with my brother and all his friends, I worked on cars with my father, I climbed trees, and can be quite a klutz…plus I have had multiple surgeries, have broken up multiple dog fights. These things make for MANY scars, but not necessarily exciting or unusual stories.

So let’s talk about my wuss test. In junior high, I had a lot to prove. Like I said, I was a tomboy but I was starting to have more girls as friends and it was awkward for me. My guy friends were giving me a hard time for suddenly turning into a girl and I was easily baited. Especially easily baited if my toughness was ever in question.

I can’t remember now what class I was in, or what boy it was that brought the wuss test to my attention but it was said that I wouldn’t/couldn’t do it and so it was on. I laid my hand down on his desk and told him to do his worst, that I wouldn’t pull away no matter what. Essentially what happens is that they take one of those large pink erasers and ERASE YOUR SKIN as fast and as hard as they can. It’s like getting the worst rug burn of your life. The faster you pull your hand away, the bigger wuss you are.
Needless to say, I have a scar on my right hand, because I AM NOT A WUSS. It was a bloody mess when the teacher busted us both and snatched me out of there to the nurses office. He got quite a lot of detention, I got my ass beat by my father (for making him have to come to my school-this was the last year he actually could come to my school before the restraining order) and had my hand bandaged for quite some time (slow healer) but the boys never questioned my toughness again (or my pain tolerance, which was the stuff of legends after that).

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