Thanks to Sally at Already Pretty, she posted the most wonderful article from Jezebel. I don't read Jezebel often, though it is a good site with many fascinating posts (and led to my love of Rich Juzwiak and Winston). However, when I go to Jezebel, it just looks so busy. It is hard to pick out what I want to read; so, I am very grateful when someone else does the work for me!
I highly encourage all people to read the Jezebel article (look, I linked to it again so you don't have to arrow up--I know what laziness is like). It so clearly explains what I have dealt with for the past 17 years. Whether you like tattoos, hate them or just don't care, it is worth reading just to get some insight on how it really shouldn't matter what your opinions are about tattoos. It is a lot like any other art form: if you don't like it, you don't buy it, and you probably don't think much more about it.
Recently, I learned about the Rule of Nines. I haven't actually tried it out on myself yet, but I figure about 40% of my body is tattooed. I feel that is a fair estimate. Before the Orange Lover died, I hadn't been tattooed in a few years. I had become a bit burnt out on the pain after finishing a 2-year project on my left leg. Once you get the front and back of your knee tattooed, you can say you've been through some pain. Since I haven't pushed a baby out my vag, I really can't say if it is that painful, but it still makes my stomach roll over a bit. Ahem. Anyway.
Being a woman with tattoos has been an interesting experience, and one I rarely talk about, since in general, I do not enjoy talking about my tattoos. They are a part of me, no different than my eyes, ass or feet. They exist and I often forget I have them in the same way I often don't remember the act of breathing. However, in certain situations, I am painfully aware of them: interviewing, first few months of a job and any public place where I am in a bathing suit. I hate all these situations equally. Actually, not totally true, I hate when strangers touch me. Luckily, it seems as I have gotten older, people aren't as anxious to reach out and grab my arm when I'm ordering french fries.
Let's just think about that for a minute. How often have you had a stranger feel free to touch you? I suspect pregnant women know what I'm talking about. In college, I was at a bar and some grizzled man grabbed me with a disgusting lascivious look in his eye. I coldly told him to remove his hand, and he cooly appraised me and said something dismissive about how I wanted it. That happened a lot. I'm willing to bet that doesn't happen with pregnant women (please let me know if it does, because I will gladly rant about just how fucked up people are). There is a strong impression out there that a young lady with many tattoos wants strange men to touch her; the assumption being that the lady will obviously be willing to run to the nearest darkish spot (bathroom, alley, automobile, etc.) and fuck him silly, preferably doing all the work herself. You know, because tattooed women are like that. Breaking it down, being young, a woman and having many tattoos made people think I had no right to my privacy. Being in my mid-30s at least affords me less touching but just as much looking. Who knew this would be a perk of aging.
Interviewing is particularly painful, especially in hot weather. It is difficult enough trying to figure out what to wear to an interview, and is only complicated by having to make sure all tattoos are covered. Hey, look at that woman interviewing on this 100-degree day wearing clothes from neck to wrist to ankle. Sure, people can say I could have thought about that before I got tattooed, but why? What do my tattoos have to do with what I am capable of accomplishing? Does your taste in home decor matter when you are making a spreadsheet? I highly doubt it. Does your choice to have kids make you less ethical and loyal to your employer. Probably not. So why should it matter that I have tattoos. My mind and morals remain the same even if my skin doesn't.
Once I get past the interview, I have to figure out at least ten variations of an all-covering outfit. Some people are smart and can see through my sad little disguise ("Dude, why do you wear sweaters every day; that's kind of weird." Agreed.). However, it is necessary to prove how awesome I am before people know what I look like in a sassy dress and awesome shoes. If I didn't take this precaution, I would constantly fight against their perceived assumptions about who I am. Which is not, as exciting as it may be, a crack-addled, illiterate whore who plans to steal from the petty cash and sell office supplies from the back of her van. That will probably surprise a lot of people. I actually sell PCP-laced ice-cream from the back of a van. I digress. The point is, once I come out of the tattooed closet, it is usually cool, but I'm smart enough to get them to like me first. Worship me really. Did I mention that I just got the top score on my mid-year performance review? Well, I did.
Whatever, it all sucks, but I can deal with it fairly easily (especially now that I am on drugs...yay drugs!). What I still cannot do is handle questions about my tattoos with grace, nor when people freely comment about me when I am within hearing distance. It incenses me. One time this subject came up at a party, and a close friend's date got all in my face about how I must want this attention and that I am not allowed to have a problem with the comments and questions. That I deserve to be treated with disrespect because of my choice to have tattoos. Things got a little tense there for awhile, but we moved on eventually. Yet, that is a common opinion, which makes me sad, angry and depressed. You can feel free to think I'm disgusting and have made bad choices, but keep it to yourself unless I ask. If I want you to know about my tattoos, I'll bring it up myself. Let's try to be friends first before you ask me about my personal choices. I would rather talk about my preferred tampon brand than my tattoos. That is how private they are. Yes, they can be seen, but that doesn't mean they are for anyone but me. Got it?
I'll go ahead and answer the two of my most frequently asked questions: yes they hurt, and no, they do not have any symbolic meaning (except, perhaps, Orange Lover's paw print). Thank you and goodnight.
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