Kicking off my shoes and socks, I look down at my right foot. There are two parallel 1-inch incisions across the top.

“Huh,” I say, reaching down and poking one. “Cool.”

I cannot decipher the origin of the cuts, but that doesn’t really bother me. I just think, ‘That would be a damn nice scar,’ before flopping down on my bed to catch the tail end of a Star Trek Voyager episode.  But my foot is right in front of me; I can’t stop staring at it.

This happens every time I am nicked or bruised.  If my arm brushes against blackberry bush thorns, my hike may be delayed for several minutes: I must pause and blink, holding out my arm and admiring the insult.

But, right now, more important than the wound is the mystery. Did I catch my foot in a chip bag clip? A villain could have sewn razor blades into my shoe. Or, a mystic might have bewitched my shoelaces into whips!

I see conspiracy and political agendas everywhere.

Against my feet.

…

Dude. That’s the best I can come up with?

Having missed Star Trek, I find myself watching Mulan. She reminds me that I’m female and that I don’t “really” want scars, even from battle.

Raising my eyebrows, I telepathically communicate the word “skank” right back. Her song falters. “Bitch,” I send. “And your pores are huge!” This is when she sheers off her hair and starts cross-dressing; I feel guilty.

But her message remains: being female means that my skin is supposed to stay smooth. It’s supposed to stay sensual.

Still staring at my foot, I coo, “I really hope you scar,” and flip the channel.