I ripped up my right knee good and proper thirty years ago. One summer day, 10-year old me and my best friend were riding our bikes around the neighborhood, heading home to grab our towels and go to the pool. As we passed the basketball court, I spotted my big brother sitting on top of a 12-foot fence-- something he was forbidden to do. I hollered, "I'll laugh if you fall and break your neck!" Then I went home, grabbed my towel, and sassed my older sister (who was in charge of my brother and I while our mom was at work). I hopped back on my bike and charged down the driveway-- the steepest one in the neighborhood-- smarting off to my sister on the porch the whole way.

When I got to the street, she yelled something and I turned around to say, "What? I can't hear you! Neener!" Big mistake. The neighbors across the street had their 1969 Mustang -- you know, the kind with the big round, glass headlights?-- parked on the road facing the wrong way. The next thing I know, there was a crash and I just stopped because I hit something. I laughed and then looked down to see that I had put my knee right through the headlight. Then I cried. It took ten stitches to sew up the right side of my knee and the left side had to be scrubbed with a little brush to get all the glass out. My poor sister fainted and wet her pants as they were stitching me up. I think I thoroughly deserved what I got for being such a brat! I call it my scarma episode.