Twinkle, twinkle...

"Turn your scars into stars." That was the message inside my fortune cookie tonight and it just might be the best one I've ever gotten. (It's a close contest between that one and the one from awhile back that said "You look pretty today.") Funny, if I saw that on a bumpersticker or in the self-help section of Borders, I would be rolling my eyes and gagging. But somehow having it come out of a cookie makes it easier to digest. Pardon the pun.

If we were to play word association and you gave me the word "scar", I would come back with "high school". Growing up a teenage girl with bad skin will make that a loaded word. The literal, external scars led to plenty more on the inside. And they both linger and are hard to hide, even at forty-one. Issues with almost-paralyzing self-consciousness, sidestepping large groups of teenagers, only looking in mirrors when I have to...these things are still somewhat habitual for me after all these years. You can tell me to get over it, it was decades ago, move on and for the most part, I have. But stuff like that can really take hold of a person. Just like the star footballer or homecoming queen who can't seem to leave the glory days behind, it's equally hard for us less-than-popular "freaks" to get our school uniforms out of our mental attics and toss 'em for good.

Now I have a daughter and I worry about if I will inadvertently pass on these horrible habits. Bad enough she may face the issue of genetics and need a good dermatologist. But I do not want her growing up thinking everyone is looking at her for the wrong reasons, or to be afraid to do anything because someone might laugh. She is already watching my every move. I am much more aware of my motives for doing or, more importantly, not doing something. It's a whole different kind of self-consciousness. She is the guiding force in my life now, not those ghosts of teenagers past. She is my little fortune cookie.

After dinner at the Chinese place, we went to the mall. On a Friday night. Where they were playing Billy Idol on the loud speaker and selling fluorescent-colored sneakers. It was as if time had stopped and a friend's mom had just dropped off a carload of us to hang out. I got lost for a minute in a memory flood of giggles and hairspray and wondering if the cute guy at the record store was working. I didn't for a second think of being teased or feel 'less-than'. And when we walked to our car, with our little one planting sloppy toddler kisses all over my face, the stars were out and shining.