Due to pre-period clumsiness, I fell off my bike on a narrow pavement. Brushing shoulders with a stranger, who has ill-cycling skills. Fellow women. Could have been her fault, could have been mine. Never the narrow pavement's fault.
To be fair, she was nice enough to stop and ask if I was okay. At that point I was, checking my knee, my palms and so I waved at her as a friendly gesture. As I mounted my bike and peddled again, a familiar sting started pounding in my knee.
Not until an hour later did I have time to tend to my wound. The process of cleaning and sanitising has been imprinted in my brain since my first scar. Since then, I have a couple more, and every time my mum (Nurse) would examine them, bandage them and murmurs "tsk tsk tsk that's gonna leave a scar.''
Today's fresh scratch will probably blend into my patchy knee, compiled of a history of sucking at wakeboarding and skateboarding. A history my mum was a little bit weary of.
When I used to attend gymnastic competitions, I have seen friend's mum powdering her legs to hide scars before she proceed to floor practice. They once turned to me and said, 'You are alright, they (legs) look pale. Just the knees, they are a bit dark.'