This is NOT my arm, but it's the mark of which I write.On Saturday night, Jim and I attended a suprise birthday party (happy birthday, again, Kate!) and at one point the discussion turned to vaccinations. A few of us older folks talked about the smallpox vaccination scars -- the mark of an older generation -- we carry on our deltoids.

As the weather was kind of chilly and most of us were wearing long sleeves, we didn't go so far as showing each other our owies. But that night when I was putting on my jammies, I looked on my arm to remind myself what my scar looked like. Oops, not on that arm. I looked at the other. Hmmm ... I wasn't seeing it. I looked again, this time using the mirror. One arm, then the next. No scar. But I had to have a scar.

The next morning, I asked Jim to look at my arms; maybe I just wasn't seeing correctly.

"Nope, no scar."

How could that be? Smallpox vaccinations in the U.S. took place across the board up until 1972 (I looked it up!). I was definitely a child way before that year. Plus, one of the gals at the party, who is a few years younger than I am, DID show her owie -- proof that I should have one, too.

So what's the deal?

I know my mom didn't choose to not vaccinate me. Back in the day, parents just did as the doctors told them -- none of this choosing to not vaccinate your kids (which, in my opinion, is a very irresponsible thing to do and puts other kids -- and the entire population -- at risk, but that's another post). So maybe having seven kids, Mom just kind of forgot which kid got what and I fell through the cracks.

Or maybe I did get vaccinated but my body has super abilities to repair itself and the scar just miraculously disappeared. Although then there would be no explanation for my remaining stretch marks 24 years after my most recent pregnancy and the goofy scar I have on my lip from falling on the metal blade of an old-fashioned ice cream maker when I was about 3 years old.

Then maybe ... just maybe ... I'm an alien. When there's no plausible answer -- or way to end a blockbuster movie -- doesn't it always turn out to be aliens? I sure hope that's not the answer, though, because the alien-resolution ending to movies drives me batty and is one of my biggest pet peeves ... and I surely don't want to be my own pet peeve.

I guess it's not all that important since I'm still alive, with few health issues. (Okay, there's one ... but I seriously doubt that is related to smallpox.) But it's definitely a mystery.

Funny how I can be this age and still not know such a basic thing about myself.