Irony

Some people come back from vacation with a tattoo…I came back from the Caribbean with a scar.

Yes, that’s right. A scar. You may want to know how exactly I procured said scar, and where it’s located, and what it looks like. Nothing would please me more than describe, in exquisite detail, the who, what, where, when and why of this bodily alteration, which I will undertake in a paragraph or two. But before I undertake this colossal but pleasurable task, I would like to put aside these interesting particulars, and take the time to stress the irony of the entire fiasco.

Irony may or may not be the word you would chose to illustrate this situation. I understand completely if are of the type who thinks that scars are a remnants of a dangerous/ stupid/ embarrassing/ excruciatingly painful event (hopefully not all of these adjectives would be used to describe the same scar). That means you are a normal person, with normal scars, unless you have no scars, which would make you extremely cautious, extraordinarily healthy, just plain ol’ gosh-darn lucky (and abnormal). Chances are, you have scars, and that those scars and the experiences involved with obtaining them would not be described as Ironic.

One of Webster’s definitions of irony is the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning. So when I claim my scar is ironic, am I saying that it is an atypical scar obtained in an atypical way? Not exactly. Am I claiming that my scar has made my skin more healthy and radiant, instead of deforming it, as implied by the meaning of the word scar? Not particularly. All I’m saying is that my reaction to the scar does not cause the emotional response implied by the idea of obtaining a scar.

I feel that this particular blemish is ironic because if I wanted a permanent reminder of my Caribbean vacation, I would have gotten a tattoo. I like tattoos. I’ve wanted one for awhile now. I think they are pretty darn sweet if you’ve got one you like in a non-conspicuous pace. But my friends, being Godly women, flipped out on me. They went on and on about theology, and tried to convince me that it was not pleasing to God disfigure your body in that way and blah blah blah. (The reason I treat their opinion lightly is that I don’t believe one little tattoo tastefully placed is a disfigurement, but an ornament, like pierced ears. So when they toss theology into the mix, I feel that they are trying to make a little, harmless tattoo a moral evil, which I don’t quite agree with). (Please note that, regardless of how I babble on about the subject, I do see their point, and I’m not convinced I’d ever get a tattoo, even if all circumstances were favorable. But, for sake of this blog, let’s just pretend that I didn’t just say that). To sum everything up: I wouldn’t have/ couldn’t have/ didn’t get a tattoo because my friends are good friends and wouldn’t want me to do something I’d regret later (or that would keep me out of heaven, which I dare say I would regret latter).

The other ironic thing about this scar is that the friend who protested the most about the tattoo was the friend who caused me to scar in the first place. She chased me down in the ocean, and then forcefully shoved my head underwater and held me down for an uncomfortable amount of time, while sea water rushed up my nose. I, of course, trying to save my life, put up a valiant but ultimately ineffective struggle. The result of this tiff was painful; somehow my dear friend managed to gouge the top of my foot, by using a bodily part or a nearby rock, and cause a copious amount of bleeding and pain (because of all the salt in the ocean’s water). Now, I have an everlasting deformity on my foot, and not a cool tattoo, which I would have placed in a more discreet area.

To tie up this longwinded post: instead of a tattoo as a memento, I get a scar, nature’s permanent souvenir. Ironic.