When I was in Jaipur, I finally got to looking at my scars.

It wasn’t that I had been deliberately avoiding looking at where they’d put my hip back together, it was more that I’d had the surgery last summer and hadn’t had occasion to wear a bathing suit through the long, brutal New York winter. And then, for a time, I didn’t have a full-length mirror in my house, so it wasn’t like I even had the ability to put myself into perspective.

And I wasn’t ashamed of them, I just hadn’t really ever taken notice of them before.

We are all constantly called to improve ourselves. To give something up. To take up healthier habits. To be better than we are. Every day, someone in my social media feeds is giving up coffee or taking up running or going paleo or swapping out their plastic containers for glass ones, or engaging in some incrementally annoying activity reminding us all that we’re not good enough the way we are.

I wondered for a moment if I should do something about the scars.

But then I stopped thinking about it, and settled back into a chair by the pool, with the peacocks screaming at each other in the distance.


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