The scar

Ever since I quit my job, which was not even a week ago, I have been marathoning “My so-called life” yet again. Needless to say I was immediately transported to a parallel universe where emotions are very real and intense.

I remember watching Angela fall for the emotionally confused and not-that-bright (yet perfect) Jordan Catalano when I was 13 years old and having my life revolve around the live versions of that character I found along the way.

Jordan-Catalano-When-sh-ts-about-to-go-down-1440550108

Long pause after visual effect.

I remember vividly new year’s eve 1995 as I wore my pink skirt and wished myself a happy new year since I was sure that’d be the year I’d have my very first kiss. I was happy… excited and hopeful. I was a teenager with typical teenage girl dreams.

yeah, I was an idiot.

At one point I stopped wishing my Jordan Catalano on new year’s eve. Apparently, I wasn’t Angela Chase after all and my story would be different.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a romantic (That’s what my best friend has been telling me forever at least) but I did wish for it for years. It’s the power of the movies in your head.

When wait was really hurting I did what every reasonable emotional young adult would do: I got a tattoo to remind me of how much that moment hurt.

The tattoo was a scar with stitches and a little button shaped like a heart attached to it.

I vowed that I would never take those years for granted or forget about how much it hurt to wait for true love.

I know, it’s not world poverty or a terrible disease… but being loved mattered to me, for as shallow as it might sound compared to the terrible, terrible things we see every day on the news.

The tattoo came out ridiculous. The guy just couldn’t…anything. He should have been a janitor judging by his ability to draw. But it was there. That terrible thing on my arm.

Being life this ironic little thing, when we moved to Canada I had to get the tattoo surgically removed, for it was too visible for certain jobs and the result was a scar. A real one. Like the one I have inside.

Now, my husband asks me if I ever regret getting that ugly tattoo I had to remove and if I’m sorry I ended up with this huge scar on my right arm.

I always tell him that actually no, am not. I love it. It’s a big part of me. If it wasn’t for the scar, I’d be a different person and maybe he wouldn’t even love me.

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