I Hope.
I hope you have scars on your legs.
The other day I looked down at my shins and realized I can’t remember the last time they looked pristine, cover model-ready. They’re always a horror show. Like an aerial view of Yellowstone’s thermal pools: blue, amber-rimmed bruises, red streaks with ghastly white trim, flaky encrusted landscapes finishing up their work of healing.
Usually it’s a spotty, uneven mess. But one time I was branded with symmetrical gashes on both shins. The glamor! I was doing a workout at The Fitness Collective That Dares Not Speak Its Name (if you know you know) that involved high box jumps. I chose a tall box, with an extra thick plate on top, as the coach prescribed for men. On the 25th of 50 jumps I let my mind wander, failed to clear the height, and both shins came down on the wooden edge under my full weight. The skin ripped open at the same spot on both legs, leaving blood marks on the box. I removed the thick plate from the top, rotated the box so the blood was on the other side, and finished the workout, shaking. I hope you aim high. I hope you keep your mind trained on the leap, and if you fail, I hope you simply adjust, and finish what you started.
Right now I have a massive brownish, purple, sallow mess of a bruise on my upper right thigh. I was at the same Fitness Collective performing a movement that involves hoisting a barbell over the head and catching it in the hip pocket on the way down. On the 12th of 15th reps, I let my form slip and the bar came down on my thigh. I hope you put a little too much weight on the bar. I hope you push your limits and try to find out what you’re made of. And always pay attention to form.
The most recent addition to my family of flesh wounds came two weeks ago in Mexico when I tried learning how to surf, and ended up dashed against some rocks under the water, which lacerated the tops of my feet, and provided a comfortable home for sea urchin spines below my knee. A Mexican surf instructor plopped my foot on a wooden box and pulled up a chair with gusto, as if he were about to carve a turkey. He opened what looked like a tackle box, revealing dusty metal instruments that he used to dig out the sea urchin daggers while my friend Ashley, a nurse, stood by with Neosporin from her bag. I hope you go on vacation with a girl who thinks to bring Neosporin to the beach.
Last summer I caught a fish in Oregon, and while posing in the Deschutes River for the victory photo, I knelt on a sharp rock that punctured my knee. I was staying at that fishing retreat with my co-writers, charting out several seasons of a TV show, one that I had spent the summer working on drafts of while camping. I hope you sleep on the ground and make stuff. Whether it’s a TV show, a baby, or an impulsive decision. Just make things.
Two years ago, on the night I decided to end a relationship, I slammed the door of my apartment so hard it shattered the wooden frame. Then I repeatedly punched the porcelain surface of the bathroom sink in heartache and rage, bruising eight of my knuckles. The upstairs neighbors thought someone was being murdered. I hope you don’t break your landlord’s property, and I hope you find something softer to punch than a sink. I hope you find a better way to express your anger than I did. But most of all I hope you recognize when a thing is no longer healthy or helpful, and you end it swiftly, with grace.
The scarring is even worse on the inside. If you were to flatten out my soul into a surface it would look like the back wall of a firing range. Months after the aforementioned breakup, I was still heartbroken, coiled on my friend Betsy’s couch, asking “How long will it be like this?” She said softly, “It will take as long as it takes.” Across the room, her husband Will added gently, “It will be like when the fever breaks.” They were both right. I hope you find friends who tell you the truth.
My pride and self-righteousness are so dented and totaled that the Kelley Blue Book value of that vehicle has gone into the negative. Recently I tried to be helpful and do the right thing, only to find out my actions made the other person feel minimized and disrespected. I hope you learn how to apologize. And how to receive an apology.
My ego is full of holes, like Swiss cheese. I’ve lived only half a life, but I’ve racked up a lifetime’s worth of rejection, both professionally and personally. I hope you amass a pile of emails that begin with “Dear So-and-So, Thank you for your submission, but…” I hope you try and try and try. When you catch feelings for someone, I hope you’re brave enough to tell them. And when they reply that they see you only as a friend, I hope you can honor their response, and find the resilience to move on.
If you arrive at the end of your life in one piece, unblemished, unbroken and immaculate, did you even live?
Whoever you are: my nephew, a stranger, a friend, or the life partner I haven’t met yet,
I hope you have scars.
And a story for each one.
