It’s a badge of honor that pizzeria owners wear with pride:
The Oven Burn.
Oh, Duncan may get a paper cut now and then, but it’s nothing like the BURN!
Both of my arms are scarred with flesh-wounds (and bruises) due to trying to lift a 10lb paddle and slide a pie into a 700-degree oven.
HhhhiissSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSs goes my skin, as I curse barely flinch from the searing pain, not wanting to wrinkle the raw dough that’s gliding slowly off of the wooden paddle.
Another arm bites the dust.
During the winter, it’s not a big deal. I wear jackets while grocery shopping or wandering around in public. It’s in the late Spring, or the Summer, that I end up uncomfortable. No, not because of the pain of my skin healing, but because I can feel the eyes of people behind me, wondering if I’m a self-mutilator.
I should create a custom T-shirt that proclaims: Proud of My Burns. And on the backside?
No, I’m Not A Cutter.