Battle Scars

It is Tour de France time again, and every morning I’m glued to the TV as long as possible before I have to go to work, then I turn on my computer to see the live stream of who wins each stage. And they still amaze me – these guys who bike across France, up and down mountains, crashing and recovering, sometimes riding on in spite of gashed elbows and broken bones.

Since I’m not much of a sporting-type, I don’t have many battle scars or markings of bravery. The only real injury I’ve ever had (knock on wood, please) was from doing the jitterbug on a concrete stage in Branson for a year, two shows a day, when I got tendonitis in my wrist. I have to admit it’s a little fun telling people that my occasional wrist brace is from a jitterbug injury.

The scar I’ve had for the longest time is from when I was 3 years old or so, and there was a flat round barbecue grill base sitting on our front porch, just sitting there enticingly with no grill and no stand. For some reason I played inside it with my kitten, and when I got up I cut my ankle on the metal piece that stuck up to hold the missing grill. I went to the emergency room for that one, and it is still prominent on my ankle, complete with little spidery stitch marks.

I also have a scar on my shin from a curling iron. A strange location, yes, but it’s from sitting on the floor in my dorm room in college, trying in vain to do something with my hair. I remember the skin kind of melting away in slow motion as the hot metal hit my leg.

My only true sports scar is from tennis, on the back of my right shoulder. How, you wonder, did I get a tennis scar there? My friend and I were playing doubles with two guys, and I dove for a backhand in an attempt to impress our opponents. I assure you I was very impressive, since I didn’t intend to actually dive. But I don’t have to tell anyone that.

So, I watch the Tour de France every year with awe, as the cyclists ride along with blood-covered faces and ripped jerseys, across the mountains in 90 degree heat, while I watch from my air-conditioned living room on our overstuffed sofa with George. Do you think Lance Armstrong would be impressed by my tennis scar?

Those Bleepin' Stickers

This week as George and I drove back home from the dog park, we sat at a traffic light behind an SUV that had stickers on the back window which proudly boasted that they have a husband, a wife, three tall children, one short one, and two dogs. Even as I write this, my upper lip is curling up in disgust at the memory.

So, why do I have such a strong reaction to these family window stickers that are so common nowadays? Yes, part of it is because my husband and I do not yet have a family of our own, and that issue contains a lot of emotion. But I know that these stickers would annoy me anyway.

Let’s also put aside the fact that it’s not safe to put your kids’ names on the back of your car for just anyone to see, inviting weirdos and rapists to call your three-year-old by name and take off with him.

My issue is this: Why do they think I care about the makeup of that car’s happy little family? These stickers remind me of the reality TV phenomenon that has given the population the idea that the little details of their life mean something to strangers. Watching hours of TV where grungy people sit around and complain that their roommate used all the toothpaste or that they can’t stand so-and-so’s attitude has made people think that their details are important, creating a mini-celebrity status in their minds.

Or you could compare these stickers to the guns-for-hire in the Old West, in that parents put a sticker up for each kid like old gunslingers put notches on their gun barrels for each kill. Or like crews of WWII planes who painted an airplane silhouette on their plane for each enemy they shot down. Or like Pat Benatar’s notches on her lipstick case. These stickers are emblazoned on the back windows of cars like there’s a worldwide competition to see who can have the most kids.

So, what can I do to counteract these smiling stickers that mock me from their lofty position on their gas-guzzling SUVs? I wish there were something in response, like those bumper stickers that say “My kid beat up your honor student,” or the Darwin fish that eats the symbol for Christianity. But even if there were such a sticker, I wouldn’t post it. I don’t like to put things on my car that outwardly provoke people – I prefer a simple “Obama” sticker over one that rudely attacks Bush or the Republicans. There’s enough negative energy out there already.

So I guess I’ll just have to ignore them. Or if they’re parked nearby, George can conveniently pee on their tires. That’ll show ‘em.