It’s summer time in Texas which means it’s hot. Like stupid hot. And when it’s stupid hot, somedays I decide to wear dresses, because they are cooler than slacks and a jacket.
Today was one of those days.
But when I went to put on a dress this morning, I hesitated because I remembered that my right knee is still skinned up from a wipeout last week on an electric scooter in Austin. And so I almost put on pants instead.
But I didn’t.
I went with the dress.
Because it reminds me of past injuries. Both the physical wound on my knee, and the emotional and mental scars I carry on my heart which kept me from wearing dresses to work for many, many years.
It’s only been in the past 15 months that I have had the courage to reclaim the power I gave away which kept me from wearing those dresses. That I had the courage to reclaim feminine dress not as a sign of weakness but as a sign of strength. That I had the confidence and the self-worth to recognize that the only person I need to dress for and care who has an opinion about what I choose to wear is myself.
So yes, wearing a dress reminds me of those scars.
But it reminds me that those scars represent a wound that has healed and that doesn’t cause me pain anymore. It reminds me of the strength I carry within myself that no person has the power to take from me.
The wound on my knee, that will become a scar in time, that’s a different story. It is a badge of courage. It is a sign of freedom. It is a claim to the carefree part of my spirit that has been buried for most of my life and is only now, at age 51, starting to come to the surface from time to time.
Because of childhood trauma and the death of my father at such a young age, I never really experienced what it was to be a carefree child. I was always very serious, very focused, and very determined to achieve goals, please others, and generally keep as much in the shadows as I was able.
Those personality traits don’t lead to the carefree play often enjoyed by children. I’ve often wished that I could go back to a time when I was carefree, without realizing until very recently that I actually never was.
When I realized that, I decided I could grieve over what never was, or I could start from now to reclaim what I missed out on.
The freedom of being silly.
The gift of being carefree.
The act of doing something for fun, for no other purpose than just having fun.
And so, with that attitude in mind, when I was in Austin this past week with Clayton and some dear friends, and on the way to dinner we came across electric scooters for rent in downtown, and the idea came up of renting them for the rest of the trip to the restaurant, I said yes. Prior to the week before, at any time that opportunity would have arisen, I would have said no. I’m too clumsy. It’s too dangerous. I’m too scared. It’s just not a good idea. But on this recent night, with the realization that I could either start to intentionally learn to be frivolous, or I could spend my time regretting never knowing that feeling, I decided to go for it.
About halfway through the ride, someone stopped in front me and, not being familiar with the brakes, I wiped out, landing partly on top of them, partly on top of the scooter, and partly on the ground. I twisted my ankle, skinned up my knee, and bruised my upper thigh. I wasn’t sure for the rest of the evening how easily I was going to be able to walk the next day. While my walking was just fine, I experienced the effects of soreness for several days after.
And each time I felt the tenderness in my ankle or my thigh, or saw the skinned places on my knee, I smiled.
Because they reminded me of the time that I was brave enough to be free.
That time that I conquered my demons.
That time that I wore my scars as if they were wings.
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