The Itch

Three weeks ago I tripped and I fell hard, on my face, skinning my elbow and my knee, ripping my jeans. It was a brilliant fall, both for its severity and its timely happening in a highly populous area. Utterly humiliating. Fueled by several cocktails and more than enough shots, I fell victim to one of the city's thousands of uneven side walks.

The next day over a cappuccino, I recounted for a friend the spectacular spill I had taken. I showed her my knee. And I got to thinking. When was the last time I had actually fallen hard enough to skin a knee? I had no idea. Sure, since then I've had rug burns and bruises, but a thick brown scab on my knee? I had no idea. I passed numerous early years with a seemingly permanent scab, a constant presence that smarted at the bend of a knee, and itched something awful as it dispersed.

Everything about the scab was familiar: the way it starts coming off first at the corners, the dryness, the itch. The constant temptation to pick it until a tiny prick of blood appears, and later hardens into a new scab. Only this time I didn't pick it. Well, not until it bled. But this time, I couldn't help thinking that this scab was for such a different reason than ever before. Sure, I tripped plenty but this time I was drinking.

I didn't play sports, I never threw myself after some superfluous ball in some sort of insane self sacrifice to prevent a goal being scored or an out-of-bounds call. I didn't pay tag, or tether ball or anything for that matter in a particularly violent way. I've never been in a fight. Tomboy simply never applied to me. But still, I had my share of skinned knees. A trip, perhaps a shove. I can remember a freeze frame of of a little knee with a tough, gnarled scab, but none of the motives behind it. I was a girl's girl. No, I was a boy's girl. The type who has millions of dolls that are all her children. Barbie only wore a wedding dress: she was always getting married. Outfits match. Sleeping Beauty lived in the VCR. I always wanted to be a princess. Not for the title or the real estate but for the prince. For the wonderful idea that one day a man, not just a man a prince would come into my life and then there would be nothing but happiness. After all isn't that what ever after means?

Princesses don't have skinned knees, it seemed, I realize now. Or maybe they did, and thus the need for the petticoats. My scab has already peeled off and I can see the fresh red skin exposed as well as the realization that I don't want to be a princess. I hope there are many a scraped knee to come. Perfection is boring, whatever that means. The knee in freeze frame is bigger now. My scab no longer attached I realize that even when it isn't sloughed off by a harsh city street, my skin is shedding constantly. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.