So I started thinking about what the Pilot could possibly see in me. I mean, I was cute, yes and funny, God I thought I was funny, but really there were so many hidden scars I wasn’t sure it was fair of me to entertain even seeing him casually without letting him know my story. And what a story it was. So I knew I had obvious scars; like the ones from surgeries. I had one in my neck, one on my back, one from my appendix, two on my knee, one on the very edge of my tailbone. Which to tell you the truth is one of the ones most people don’t get to see, but bothers me the most. I mean, if in fact a guy was to touch me there it’s like the skin of an alligator. At some point in my life I had a cyst on my tailbone. It got infected, how you ask? I have no idea, but it did. And I had to get it removed. I can remember walking into the doctor’s office and the doc was young and hot. And I had to put my ass up in the air for him to take a look. I very rarely get embarrassed but that, that made me blush. The last thing you want a hot doctor doing is looking into your butt cheeks. It’s just not cute at all. I had to sit on a donut for a week and I was mortified. Not only did he have to do an actual surgery to take it off, I then had to go back and have stitches removed. Mortifying.

I had scars from moles that had been removed and scars from where I cut the tip of my finger off. I was rushing to get my daughter to basketball practice and I was making dinner. As I cut the cucumber I said to myself in my head be careful and with that I sliced the tip of my middle finger straight off to where it flipped around and was hanging off. I grabbed a washcloth, red and had my significant other drive me to the ER. Needless to say she was late for practice and as I sat in the waiting room people were staring at me. They took me in quick and acted like I was dying. Then the nurse said “Oh, it’s just a red washcloth?” Yes, yes it is, “Why?” I asked. “Because we thought you were bleeding through and some of the people in the waiting room were getting uncomfortable.” Nope, it was just a red washcloth. Six stitches later I can freely flip the bird again without hesitation. I had internal scars that no one would ever see like getting my tonsils out of my septum redone when it fell over after my daughter broke my nose. She was only two and I was laying on the couch facing out and she was standing in front of me. I was tickling the back of her neck when she let out a giggle and her head came back and smashed my face. I actually had a cast on my nose for two weeks.

I had internal scars from ovarian cysts and torn cartilage and all sorts of other weird and interesting ailments. I looked like a regular jigsaw puzzle and I was sure that I was barely being held together with replacement parts. But the scars I was most nervous about were the emotional ones. The ones that changed who I thought I was, the ones, that only I could heal. The ones that to me, felt open and exposed. They were raw and bloody still and was it even fair to let the Pilot have to take part in them. none of them were his doing, so why should he have to be a part of putting me back together. Again I felt like humpty dumpty and I was in a million pieces, but no one could tell.

I walked around, fully function, everything in its place, but I knew inside I was a mess. I was a combination of a million pieces, shattered and sharp, cutting anyone that tried to clean me up. It wasn’t fair of me and I wasn’t sure I could do it. But hey, what’s a few dates? A nice dinner, good conversation, some fun. Oh right. Fun. I remembered what that was. I would just be me. The me that I was right now. The me that inside was completely broken. But that was the only me I had at this point.

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