Summer’s approaching, and with it, such great things as days spent in the sun, midnight jaunts to the beach and long, lazy evenings on my deck.

I’m looking very forward to summer, as it carries in its freedom song the great promise of everything fully alive. I love the feel of hot beach sand beneath my back, the sun bright and waves lulling me to sleep. The scent of fresh cut grass is easily among my top five scents (remarkable, I know, as I hate cutting the grass itself) and the taste of popcicles and watermelon.

For years, though, there was one part of summer which I absolutely abhorred. Shorts. I still hate shorts, to be honest, mainly because they feel like fashion that has given up (too lazy to be pants, not committed enough to be a skirt), but one particular issue rose up repeatedly for me where shorts are concerned—my scars. Continue reading