chicks dig scars

Back in my young and impressionable days, my dad would come home from work, basketball, or his church calling, he'd take off his shoes and neurotically put them in his closet and then sit down and ask us about our days. I remember thinking how tired and happy he looked everyday, which to me seemed like strange, incompatible emotions. I didn't get it. One day I was making fun of the callouses on his hands and feet. He said, "When I get home, I know I've worked hard because of my callouses, my reminder of a successful day." I used to go to work and wonder when I would get my permanent reminder of a hard day's work. I don't know what I was expecting considering I was just a nanny for all those years.

Yesterday, I was painting my chipping toenails and I looked at the callouses on my feet and had never been so proud of such an imperfection on my body. "I WORK HARD!" I exclaimed to an empty bed room. It was relief to have a visual reminder of a job well done. I realized that I might have a lot missing but one thing I've never struggled with was a lack of hard work. Even in my worst times I find a way to work hard at something. The days I'm hardest on myself, I remember my redeeming quality. The days when I feel unneeded or unhappy or when my blogs are especially depressing I remind myself of my ability to work hard and am able to pep myself right back up. I always knew this, but hadn't realized until just yesterday that I was to that lucky age when proof of my hard work shows up on my precisely manicured feet.