Scarplace

There are apparently two kinds of people in the world. Or, at least, two kinds of readers of this fine feature:

1. People who read the previous post and wanted to see pictures of the spiffy pants I've acquired. I'm not sure what bizarre turn of world events has occurred that would lead me to post a link to a picture of my pants, but here you go.
2. People who read the previous post and who were disappointed that the reference to "show[ing] off my scar" linked not to a picture of my scar, but to an article about the pop singer Anastacia, and her very own Crohn's-related scar. If you aren't one of those people who wanted to see the scar, you might want to avoid scrolling much further.

I'm still trying to figure out the whole scar business. Thirty-eight years is a long time to get used to your real estate looking a certain way. On the other hand, after five days in the hospital and a month at home, you figure there ought to be some kind of visual proof that I had more than a hangnail removed. And as one nurse pointed out (at 4:15 a.m., no less), it's probably better that I have a scar and no internal damage than no scar and a lot of internal damage.

But it's a doozy. My surgeon (who, you'll recall, described what came out of me as a "football-sized kielbasa"), thought it was ten inches long. Even allowing for a couple of turns, I measure it at more like eight or eight-and-a-half. Anyway, I am not the only member of the family who doesn't necessarily look forward to getting into a swimsuit this summer.

Still, it's going to stick around, and so I ought to get used to it. I have noticed, for example, that when you add the belly button, it looks, just vaguely, like the old flag of the Soviet Union. But in my case, I'm sickle no longer.

All right. Because you asked.