Callouses and scars

I love callouses and scars. On my feet, on my hands, on my elbows, on my shoulders, on my knees. They mean I've used my limbs and my energy to do things. They're little reminders that I've worked and played and danced and prayed. The balls of my feet and my toes and heels say I can dance and run and step on rocks and sand. My second toe is longer than my first and bears a little callous on the tips from dancing on my toes and hitting them on the ground and jumping around in clogging and ballet and running. The sides of my feet show all the times I've worn high heels and ripped through the skin to get blisters until they hardened to protect me from my own fashion stupidity. The skin that should be soft on the ball of my feet aren't from marching band and blistering them beyond recognition with two-inch blisters a half-inch thick, and then marching on top of that anyway, all bandaged and padded. My knees are scarred and calloused from kneeling on cement and concrete and dirt to plant and weed and pray and help little kids tie their shoes or powerslide and fall. My shoulders are calloused from holding drums and hiking backpacks for miles. My hands have callouses from using shovels and axes and moving hay bales and digging trenches and mucking stalls. My elbows have army crawled through dirt and sand and carpet to play army games with little kids and cousins and friends, or sneak up and prank someone in their tent or sleep. I have scars on my ankles from the first time shaving and whipping them through weeds while running. I have a raised scar on my chest and neck from chickenpox, and sevenon my fingers from hot glue guns and splinters and knifes. I have one on my back from being rubbed raw, and so many on my knees from falling in track and gym burns from speedball and basketball or skidding on ice or kneeling on legos and puncture vines. My shins have experienced jumping onto a concrete block, missing, and ripping them open on the edge. The side of my thumbs are scarred from stressfully tearing at them with my teeth over and over again, and my left calf has a tire mark scar from my foot slipping off the pedal and getting the skin burned off by the back tire of my bike going down a hill. My arms have scars from cuts and mosquito bites when I was little and when a hot-poker got set on one of them. I can remember each incident with clarity, but only because I have reminders. They're not pretty and other people might think I'm weird for it, but I love my callouses and scars.