As I approached my teens, I looked down at my knees and I was filled with shame.

My knees were rough and dark. All those years, tromping around the desert behind my house, had taken its toll and no amount of scrubbing could lighten or soften them. I got banged up and dirty on an almost daily basis. I played in the dust and mud alike. I ran, crawled, dug, and explored to my heart’s content.

When I noticed my knees, I tried everything to repair the damage. I used a loofah and scrubbed until they were red and raw. I juiced lemon halves on my kneecaps. I rubbed Vaseline or Vitamin E oil into them. Nothing lightened or softened them.

I asked my friend how her knees were so soft and pretty. I almost choked when she told me, in all seriousness, that it was because her mom never allowed her to crawl as a baby so that her knees would remain soft. Even then I knew that kind of mothering was a bit overly dramatic. Still, even as I gawked at her answer, I guess there was something to be said about it because she did have knees I was dreaming about.

Eventually, when I stopped running around like a Neanderthal, my knees lightened and softened up all on their own as I reached adulthood. I never stopped being clumsy; however, so I still have scars, some old and some brand, spanking new. I write this as I look down at a fresh bruise I do not remember getting.

Given a choice between soft knees or hours upon hours of fantastical adventures, I might have taken the knees back then. Decades later, and with absolutely no disrespect to my friend with beautiful knees, I look down at my scarred knees with pride and gratitude.