the half truth of a whole life

After weeks of  anticipation,  my psych evaluation finally came. I know for the poo eaters out there this isn’t such a big deal, but I’ve been waiting the better part of 26 years to have an adult conversation with a medical professional who has the power to save me from myself. Every MF person I know is on some cocktail of joy and patience that makes life easier to handle and I couldnotwait to get me a cocktail to get this crazy out of my head.

No one in the history of the world has ever been better prepared for a psych eval than I was. Not only did I fill out the twenty page form, detailing my most intimate thoughts for the benefit of science, I began keeping a notebook two weeks before the appointment. I would write down things that I thought we should chat about, things that made me anxious (everything), nervous (everything), unhappy (most things), or bored (everything). I brought my paperwork and notebook to the meeting, ready to have a conversation and get the healing ball rolling.

In hindsight, my first mistake was made a few weeks prior, when I called to make the appointment. They asked if I had a preference between a male or a female.  I said I didn’t. That was a complete lie. I hate women. I guess I was trying to play all gender neutral in hopes that my choice wouldn’t be documented in a file that would later be used to determine whether or not I deserved to get my meds. Right, well, mistake. What I should have said was, “put me in a room with one of those Chaco-wearing, pseudo lesbian types and I’ll just pay off Juan in maintenance to ask his brother to ship my pills direct from Juarez.” Instead I played it cool and said whoever was available would be fine with me.

I don’t even believe in women gynecologists. I tried for about a year to change my spots by going to see some big shot OBGYN at the Fresh Pond Women’s Health Plaza or some such nonsense and what I ended up getting was some spiteful woman who didn’t care about my ovaries since I wasn’t going to give her a new picture for the wall of babies. FINE. I don’t need you to give me my tune up. I’LL FIND SOMEONE ELSE. And I did. And I now have the most gangbusters gyno EVER. (There’s actually a post somewhere on this blog about him and the conversation we had about whether or not I should wax before coming to see him. Awe.some.)

Moving on. So I didn’t get a man. I got a lady.  A lady therapist. (We’re not even into medical school graduates. The eval is to determine whether you’re worthy of seeing a man with a script pad.) So I show up looking as high functioning as I could manage. I changed shoes twice and made sure to get there early so I wouldn’t be all sweaty and panty and “oh, fuck, I’m so sorry! I had all day to get here by four PM and still couldn’t manage it.” I know that they write everything down. This isn’t my first rodeo.

There I am with Emily, which happens to be my mother’s name, a name that I’m just now getting okay with as an option for one of my yet-to-be-confirmed children, trying not to cross my arms subconsciously because I don’t want her to put a note in my file about how I start off defensive and haughty. I end up fidgeting instead–which definitely wasn’t part of my plan. I almost told her I was sexually frustrated to explain away the ticking, but I was scared she’d take that to mean I liked ladies and then we’d have a whole new issue that would distract from my mission: prove functioning incompetence and graduate to a psychiatrist.

The whole thing was supposed to be 45-50 minutes and Emily couldn’t help but look at the clock obsessively, which made me wonder if I was being so entertaining that she was sorry to see the time go, or if she was wondering how much longer she had to be in the room with me. Or worse, that we weren’t going to be able to cover everything in the allotted time because I got hung up on my family psychiatric background. Which is so fucked up to begin with, BTW.  I don’t have enough time in a 45 minute session to cover my family. You want to know about them? Make four additional 45 minutes sessions and we’ll begin to crack that egg. She keeps doing this obnoxious nodding thing, which leads me to eventually tell her she doesn’t have to make awkward facial expressions and nod with encouragement, I know she just has to listen and I don’t need her to pretend that what I’m saying is normal. If it were, we wouldn’t be spending the afternoon together.

Bad move. She immediately wants to explore that. Why do I care what facial expressions she is making? What I want to do is tell her that as far as I am concerned she is like the backstage body guard at a live taping of Oprah. You think you matter, but no one else thinks you matter. I’m only entertaining your presence because I know if I fuck things up with you, there is NO CHANCE I am getting to see Oprah. So quit making this so hard. We both know our places. You want out of this room and I want to see your boss. Let’s do this thing.

But no. Emily is young and helpful. She wants to give me tools. She wants to get to the heart of the problem and then help me work through it. I can feel myself getting annoyed and I’m doing my very best to remain attentive to the questions and ignore her textbook discoveries about my personality. “Oh. You had a brother with a serious medical condition? It must have been very hard for you to get the attention you needed. How do you think that’s effected you?” “I don’t know, Emily, I guess it gave me this immaculate sense of style and ridiculously great job, super husband and personality that people are flocking to. Or perhaps it was responsible for my resiliency and sense of humor. Or maybe you have picked up on the one thing I’ve said in the last forty five minutes that means absolutely nothing. The one and only thing I haven’t lost sleep over. Maybe.”

Emily decides that I don’t need medication. I need therapy. Group therapy. I try to explain to Emily that I don’t do well in groups because I have a hard time connecting. Really? she says. Yes, really. I once tried OA and all I could think while I was there was how those people were a bunch of losers and if being well meant being friends with them… I’d rather be sick. Emily didn’t understand. I imagined that her boss would, but it wasn’t the right time.

So Emily reached into her Masters degree and pulled out some more assessments. Why did I think I ran when I didn’t like running? Why did I feel that clothing and shoes mattered? I took a second to try to figure out how to explain it to her in a way that made it clear that she was not touching on my psychoses, she was touching on the fundamental differences between us. The ideal response would have pointed out that, unlike her, I don’t feel it’s appropriate to air dry one’s hair and wear Chacos to work. I don’t feel that every female figure is beautiful, in fact I’m quite horrified at the majority of them and therefore feel very strongly that exercising is imperative, whether or not I like it. Instead I told Emily that I thought it had something to do with depression, anxiety, OCD– a host of things that could be easily cured with a nice mood stabilizer, a relaxer, and a little something to take the edge off flying.

She gave me the number for the group leader for the CBT Group that meets TWICE A WEEK.

I left her office wondering how the hell every person I know is on something so delightful and I can’t seem to get a rec for Advil out of my doctor. I can already tell that this is going to lead to to Munchausen by Proxy or something and Emily will be to blame. Perhaps if she wouldn’t have blocked the door to real, chemical healing my whole life could have changed. Then I would have remembered her fondly, maybe even referred people to her. Not going to happen now.

First there was the foot incident. Six weeks of no exercise, lots of doing nothing, not to mention that it overlapped with a Hawaii vacation that didn’t exactly encourage healthy, slim living. Follow that up with ten days in Texas and a two week battle with bronchitis that included a four star popped eardrum bonus and you’ve got a hell of a two months. My body composition is tapioca.

I’ve been working on being Zen about the whole thing. My body is clearly trying to tell me something. As a dear friend pointed out, I’ve been particularly “sickly” this year and there’s got to be a reason for it. It could be bad karma, as I havent exactly been inoculating orphaned babies from Haiti in 2010. (I don’t know why I chose to type it like that, in a way that suggests that I was actually doing that in 2009, or 2008.) I know that this body is temporary. I’ve got a half marathon coming up in October which will surely give this fat kid some motivation to sweat off the extra lbs, but in the moment, doing the naked mirror dance, temporary doesn’t seem to matter. It shakes like it’s gonna be there for a looooong time.

I’ve done my best to avoid direct contact with my body. I play a game where I pretend that my body is like Medusa. If I stare at it directly it will blind me. So I don’t. I look myself in the eye as I pass the mirror on the way into the shower. Sometimes I have to face the wall because the temptation is too great. (I was the girl who couldn’t help but clench my teeth when I’d just gotten my braces tightened. It just hurt so… good. There’s a similar psychology here. I dont want to see it, per say, but this sick, twisted, dark part of myself really does.) I also haven’t weighed myself. Actually, that isn’t entirely truthful. About a week and a half ago I did it just to torture myself. I have problems.

But that all changed yesterday. I finally decided to go to the doctor about this killer disease that had the nerve to fuck with my eardrum and wouldn’t you know that they feel as though in order to find out what is wrong with my lungs they need to weigh me. Now, there are two paths to take. The first is just to get on the scale like a normal person. The second is to get into an argument with the GED VoTech nurse about why on earth she needs to know how much you weigh to give you antibiotics. From experience I can tell you that the second is inadvisable. Super inadvisable. Not only does it make you sound crazy, nothing goes to shit quicker than an argument with a person whose job requires that they fill out a form. Their one and only purpose is to fill out that form. If you dare to get in the way of the form filling out, you’re going to get bitch slapped. Ever told one of those ladies (or gents) that you’re “not sure” of the answer to the question they’ve asked? There is a slight twitch that creeps over their faces. You may not even realize the power it has over you, but suddenly you just pick a medication to be allergic to so that you don’t have to endure the uncomfortable stare. Allergies? Err. Umm. Penicillin? Sure.

So then you find yourself at another cross roads. You have to get on the scale, but how much clothing can you subtly remove on your way to the platform? If you’re wearing slip ons, awesome. Done. Kick ‘em off. If you’re wearing boots, you’re going to spend the rest of the day agonizing over how much a pair of riding boots can possibly weight. Ten pounds? Twelve? The truth is they probably weigh less than three pounds and it’s that knowledge that picks at you all day long. The best course of action is usually to just take off all excessive clothing the minute they put you in the room. If you know you have to have your blood pressure taken, go ahead and make a fuss about making it easier for them by removing your jacket. You can try to get your belt off, but be cautious. You don’t want the nurse to think you’ve got the wrong idea about her. If you’ve never been beaten with a clipboard, it’s an experience you won’t soon forget.

In my experience you’re stuck with your pants and shirt. Even if you manage the shoes, belt, and jacket you’d have to be a pro to be able to get down to your skivvies without the nurse freaking out on you. I’ve been doing this for years and I’m lucky if I even get to take of my blazer. Yesterday I was so panicked about the experience I went into a trance for a solid thirty seconds after she asked me to “hop up on the scale.” I lost valuable time and didn’t even have a chance to kick of my ballet flats. Even worse, the appointment was at 1:30 but I hadn’t eaten breakfast so there was no way to psyche myself into thinking those extra lbs were my breakfast. I hadn’t even had a sip of water.

I tried to do a tricky belt-removing maneuver using one hand, but I ended up just twisting it around awkwardly. In the end I just sat there calculating how much a pair of skinny jeans and a cotton shirt weigh. Nine pounds?

The nurse told me that the doctor “could be a minute” and then closed the doors. It occurred to me that I could quickly remove all my clothes, jump on the scale, reweigh myself, and change the chart all before she returned. I would have done it too, but then I remembered that I wanted to ask her for a psychiatric referral and I was concerned that after a stunt like that she’d give me one unsolicited.

The experience has left me feeling really sorry for myself. My pants, which fit fine yesterday, suddenly don’t fit. (In my mind, of course.) In mourning for my skinny self I decided to dress in a circus tent today and sip somberly on soy berry smoothies. I’m hoping that I’ll have an opportunity for a naked weigh in before I have to go to Chicago. Nothing ruins a vacation quite like starting it feeling like an orca.

If this is your first trip to The Half Truth, you’ll need to have read this post before continuing. Otherwise you won’t be able to achieve the appropriate level of moral outrage.

The other day I was listening to an audio book on my new speakers that the hubs bought me while playing dusting ninja on the shelves that I’m certain are responsible for my inability to breathe anywhere in my apartment. (That or Stuart, but the kid can fetch and play catch so getting rid of him is out of the question.) The book was David Sedaris’s Me Talk Pretty One Day, which is one of the finest pieces of literature–audio or otherwise– ever published. It’s a cruel joke that people often compare my style of writing to his because the truth is that he is such a rich and captivating story tellerm, able to do exactly what I cannot, keep people engaged for more than 1200 words. But I was reminded while listening to him tell stories of his family that I need to work harder at improving my writing style… and finding ways to talk about my family so that they laugh too. (Currently not the case.)

During the course of one the stories he tells, he talks about a conversation with his sister where she asks him to please not exploit her current strife in one of his stories. His response, and I am paraphrasing, is, “Why? You’re not going to do anything with it.” The narrative continues expounding upon the idea that as a writer, you watch the pain and humor of others march off into the abyss because no one captures it. To a writer it begs the question “why waste a perfectly good story of humiliation and personal tragedy?”  Why not share it? Why be so wasteful? Of course to our friends and family it seems so clear, “because, you asshole, it makes me feel stupid and vulnerable.”

But there is more to it than that. Imagine if a painter was told not to paint certain things, a photographer not to photograph certain things. (Well, I guess then you’d just have American media. Pretty pictures of the things they want you to see, not the things that are actually happening.) I was always under the impression that to be written about was the highest human achievement. You enter the ranks of Oprah, Kennedy, Jesus. You are immortalized in ink. Despite your misgivings about the judgments of others, imagine for a moment a picture bigger than you. Someday all the people you know will be dead, but you’ll still have your name in a work of literature. You will, quite literally, have the last word. What’s better than that? Nothing I can think of.

The obstacle is being a good enough writer to write about people in a way that makes their grating personality attributes seem charming and enduring. Some of the great characters of our time were likely based on someone who was painful to be around for more than 15 minutes, but the way that they were crafted in prose made them seem lovable, even a little vulnerable. (For example, the great Elizabeth Bennett. As a woman it is my duty to claim her as my literary heroine, a woman of such great character and morality that I aspire, daily, to be a living homage to her. In truth, I wouldn’t invite the pious bitch out for a cocktail . Plus the fact that she likely doesn’t drink, which would only make her more socially awkward and harder to be around, and then you factor in her obscenely wealthy husband and there’s a girl I don’t want at my birthday party.)

The final layer is that of truth and transparency. The blog is such a tattletale. We live in a world where honesty is confined to passive aggressive non-verbal, non-confrontational electronic means. You don’t tell someone you don’t like them, you simply defriend them on Facebook and then wait to see how long it takes them to figure it out. Mad at a boyfriend or husband? Don’t tell them in the moment. Wait til they leave for work and then send a text. It stands to reason that the blog is going to tell a slightly more colorful story than the one that really happened. It pains me to not have written about Hawaii, but the truth is that I’m no Sedaris. My mother in law would be outraged, my grandmother in law would think I was an ungrateful bitch, and my sister in law would cut me out of family photos. It’s a lose, lose. The fans want funny, but no one wants to be the subject of funny.

Fortunately for all of us, there will always be my mother. A woman who values infamy almost as much as fame. To her, to be mentioned in any capacity contributes to her notoriety amongst a select group of blog enthusiasts. You have to be careful though, there are a few taboo subjects, things that therapy hasn’t sorted out and time hasn’t scarred. Those are the things I will write about when she is dead. (After I’ve given her 2-4 months to come back from the dead. I’m sure that if there is a way to get back from the otherside, she will figure it out. I’m also no fool. If she can’t do it in four months, it can’t be done. It’s not like she’s got a lot of body matter to lug around.)

Other than those things, though, it’s open season. Including continuing the tale of my mother, The Kitty Killer.

After posting about my mother’s inability to keep dogs, cats, gerbils, guinnea pigs, small birds, and squirrels alive, I did spend some time pondering whether or not the SPCA could have grounds for throwing her in prison. It’s not like they were all poisoned at her hand or drank funky Kool-Aid, but the mortality rate near my mother is alarming, not to mention suspicious. It’s almost like Munchhausen by Proxy with dead pets. Which is creepy. I realized, though, that if the SPCA decided to take interest in any part of my mother’s theater of animal cruelty, they would first have to wade through the six or seven thousand rednecks selling un-vaccinated hybrid puppies out of shoe boxes outside the Fiesta mart before they could worry about a little old lady whose pets “accidentally” die.  By the time that investigation was over, my mother would have commissioned portraits and albums of each dead pet to showcase her love. She would flip through the albums with unsteady hands, pausing occasionally to sip from a chipped tea cup of hot water with lemon, and then look down and take a deep breath– the only way to fight back the inevitable tears. To endure such loss–and in such abundance–would break a lesser woman. Not my mother. She was of pioneer stock. To love is to lose. The happiness always comes with heartbreak.

I also decided to keep it from everyone that she procured another kitten just weeks after the death of number 11. I hung up on her when she called and later refused to participate in any conversation about the kitty. (For all I know the SPCA and the CIA are after my mother and her phones are tapped. This could go all Michael Vick on me and I am not going to be standing there with my proverbial pants down. Let me be clear: I DO NOT CONDONE THIS.) I didn’t hear much about the cat, but that she had eventually decided that it couldnt make a life for itself on her farm. She gave it to a neighbor, who promptly returned it on account of it being evil.

Later that same day (the day of the return, which happens to be today), I get a call from my mother.

Mother: “Well, I have to call the doctor to tell him I’m going to be late on account of my dead pussycat.”

Me: You’re a terrible person. I can’t even have this conversation.

Mother: I know. So tragic. So tiny and cute.

Me: How old?

Mother: Oh, you know, about ten weeks.

(I could tell from her tone that this one had died too soon. It still showed signs of needing her and it was for that loss that she was mourning.)

Me: How ?

Mother: I backed over it.

It’s a bathroom-tastic week here at The Half Truth.

Dear Caroline,

What is your opinion about talking and socializing while in the bathroom? It happens a lot but …what if it continues while you both go to your respective stalls?

Or what if it is taking place while you are in the stall and others are all around you chatting up their outfits while grooming and hand washing?

Love,

No Chatter in the Shatter

Dear Chatter,

How nice for you that this is your biggest concern in your bathroom life. My more immediate concern is what do you do if you need to doo and someone walks into the bathroom with you? Is the courtesy flush passe? But, hey, if chit chat is your big concern, chit chat we will discuss.

What I really wonder is whether the gents are chatting it up while holding their members and standing like criminals in a lineup. There is nary a story I’ve been told from the male perspective that doesn’t have something about “my buddy and I were in the bathroom, talking about tits”– or some variation and it does give me pause to think that us women folk feel so awkward about talking and tinkling. (Then again, there is something that the closed door brings to the the situation. It’s another thing entirely if we were all sitting on stall-less potties, I imagine that then it would feel awkward not to talk. You’d just be staring at your fellow coworker sitting there… doing whatever she is doing…)

My first response? No. No talking in the toilet room. But then I think to myself, “self, you talk while flossing, brushing your teeth, you’ve likely talked while passing gas, or thinking about random sweaty sex with a stranger. When, then, does it seem so taboo to talk while tinkling?” And then I remember. It’s about poo.

Sure, if every girl was simply having some tinkle time, I’d say talk away. But there’s no telling. You have to pretend that anyone, at anytime, needs some personal time. There could be poo in the equation and as long as there is that chance, you need to shut the fuck up and get out of the bathroom. Quit your gossiping and hair primping and leave the potential pooers in peace.

Think of it… the men have an automatic silent signal. If there is an open urinal and a man chooses the stall, he’s either got a stream issue or a poo sitch. There’s no conversation about it amongst the masses, simply a silent reverie. A man is having a moment. Leave him and speak not of this to anyone.

Not so with the ladies. There is a Victorian-era hangover that assumes ladies don’t use the toilet. We simply enter the stall to think about fairies and butterflies and take deep breaths. We gather, clump even. We chat about the weather (or each other) without considering even for a moment that the shoes under the stall door, the ones that havent moved the entire time we’ve been there, belong to someone who is breaking out in a cold sweat waiting for us to leave to they can have some peace and quiet.

My advice to you (and everyone else) is to keep the porcelain palace sacred. There exists no greater concentration of karma in the entire universe then right there between those tiles. If you choose to talk, do it only with the full and binding knowledge that someday its going to be you in there, listening to girls twirl their hair and talk about white wine while your fight back the sweet water and full body chills, bartering with God to please, please, please make them leave. Please.

To a peaceful…

Caroline

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… of things that can ruin your Monday (and maybe the whole week):

1. having to use water in your cereal.

me: on a scale of one to ten drunkness, you’re at least a seven.

the hubs: well, yeah. but it wasnt all the drinking.

me: and your eyes are super blood shot

the hubs: the pot was a super bad idea

me: i bet

the hubs: yeah, i was kind of looking to you to be all bitchy and say, “no!”

me: well, what can i say, I let you make your own decisions.

the hubs: well, in the future i’d appreciate it if you wouldnt do that.

I don’t need to give my work community any further reasons to poke me in the eye with a hot stick. If it’s not bad enough that I don’t partake in the happy hours and pub crawls, I’ve also developed an apparent disdain for gatherings that smell more social than business, re: meetings that are excuses to talk about “things” and “feelings” rather than “clients” and “marketing.”

I don’t know how it happened. I think my years working at the venerable, and by that I mean completely dysfunctional and emotionally wounding, Louis Boston in college taught me that the people you work with should not be your friends. Sure, you may cherry pick one or two people to cross the line with, but taking on the lot of them is dangerous. Deep down you have to remember that these are convenience friends, their love and support is mostly contingent upon their continued employment. You don’t want to be the shmuck who shelled out $20 for every Pam, Tami, and Donna who had a baby or got married and then end up realizing that none of them are coming to your baby shower six years down the road.

I don’t feel guilty about my work/life separation. On the one hand, for the first 18 month I worked here the staff thought I was sleeping with my boss, and even still I can’t be certain they’re all convinced that I’m not. On the other hand, they’ve got each other. Come morning someone is always polite enough to tell me that they missed me, but I’m quite certain that mid-Jager bomb not a single person is toasting my name or lamenting over my absence. Why? Likely because I’m unpleasant.

And don’t get me wrong, I work with great people. Some of the best, in fact; I’m just very, very cautious about getting to close and friendly. Believe it or not, it makes things harder. Become besties with a work friend and then I double dog dare you to try to have a serious performance conversation. Either you’re freaking out on the inside or their internal monologue is going on about how “totally ridiculous” this whole thing is, “like, aren’t we friends? You know I’d totally have your back.” Bad idea jeans, kids.

But there remains the basic truth about work relationships: no matter what, keep it friendly. If you’d care to take on the wrath and hatred of your entire company, be my guest, but I am way too insecure about my performance and breath to go alienating my fellow ad friends. And so it is that I have to do things that deep down inside make me so uncomfortable that I get a rash up near my ears just thinking about it. One such thing? Summer outings.

They sounds so harmless. In fact, using an antiquated, pre-pre-marital sex word like “outing” makes it sound downright lovely. “Yes, yes, friends, let us all gather on the veranda and set upon our outing. Where ever shall we go? I do hear that kind Mr. Hawthorne has some lovely berries this time of year. What say we pick and giggle? Oh! Yes! Let’s do!” I think breezes and ice cream cones, the warm sun dancing off of Indian Paintbrushes or something. What I don’t think of is frolicking around the co-workers in a bathing suit.

This year we’re going on a lovely summer outing to the beach. Come Friday we will pack ourselves into a party bus and head towards the ocean. We will play games and drink beverages, eat seaside and play volleyball. And twelve hours later, when we’re exhausted and spent, we’ll gather ourselves back on the bus of eternal merriment and travel back towards Boston with love and camaraderie in our hearts, the warm glow of booze in our blood, and our eyes towards a better tomorrow.

To me this means two hours of diligent focus and Zen-like ignorance of the jiggling and jogging happening around me, motions that will certainly cause me to yiff up anything I’ve chanced to eat for breakfast. Assuming my first application of SPF 55 lasts it’s optimal 4 hours, I’ll be primed for a reapply right around lunch time. Hopefully I’ll have the opportunity to ask one of my coworkers to rub the lotion on my body, as I’d hate to maintain dignity and decorum in the midst of our bonding. I can then look forward to the quizzical demenor of my comrades, wondering why I wouldn’t want to have a few brews before getting on a bathroom-less bus and swerving back towards the city after dark. I’m really, really hopeful that I’ll get some sand in my lady parts so I can try to appear calm and collected while a seaside infection makes it’s way into my body via my dampened bathing suit.

All in all, I’m looking forward to the opportunity to get my ass kicked in a super-charged game of volleyball dripping  with passive aggressive angst while wearing a bathing suit in public.

Better yet, why don’t we wear bathing suits to work and spend the day playing passive-aggressive volleyball with our families (which would likely be very productive)?  No? Bad plan?

Oh, summer outings. How I love thee.

Yesterday while eating sushi, my server, whom I’ve known for quite some time and do like, looked up at my friend Chris and myself and asked us if we thought that getting a visible tattoo would hinder her ability to get a job.

Good question. A question that we’ve been asking ourselves, and each other, since the beginning of tattoo time. An even better question when you take into consideration that both the people she chose to ask have visible tattoos. I’m assuming what she really wanted to ask was, “Umm, Chris and Caroline, are you super sorry you went off and got a tattoo right there? Where everyone can see it? Is it hard having everyone immediately know that you’re a sailor and a whore, respectively?”

What I wanted to say in return was something deeply philosophical, a tree-falls-in-the-woods like analogy that would leave her stunned and pondering and give me the opportunity to go back to my spice tuna roll. Instead I told her that it did matter. If, in life, you want to be 100% sure that you’re not being judged for your physical appearance, you best do everything in your power to have the most benign personal appearance of all time.

But do that with some caution. I’m may be lumped in with fatties and queers when it comes to seeking employment, but I do my part to right the karmic scales by never hiring the pearl-wearing, empty brief case toting, yes sir, no sir, I don’t know sirs of the world. I respect rules, but I don’t really care for those who clearly care so deeply about the opinions of others that they have committed their lives to concealing who and what they are, for fear that it will lead them down the wrong path.

When I got a tattoo is was for all the wrong reasons. I got a tattoo to get a tattoo. I got it because I saw in myself something I didn’t like. I saw a person who judged other people with tattoos. I assumed that the tattoo was a harbinger of ill breeding and a below average lexicon. When I decided upon the place for my tattoo I decided I wanted it somewhere very visible. When someone sees that I have a tattoo, I want to be able to look them in the eye, watch their perception of me change. I want to see them think, “huh, and here I thought she was such a smart girl…” And I want them to look in my eyes and see the exact same thing.

And then there is the matter of the bunnies. Yes, that’s right, for those of you who don’t know me, I have bunnies tattooed on my arm. Shel Silverstein’s Runny Babbit to be exact. If you’d like to participate in an enlightening sociological exercise, tattoo bunnies on your arm. Everyone wants to loathe their existence, BUT THEY ARE BUNNIES. Who could ever hate a bunny. Furthermore, what reckless badass tattoos a furry woodlands creature on her arm?

Since having a tattoo I realize, as is true with all things, there are a myriad of reasons for tattoos. Yes, a notable percentage of tattooees have below average intelligence and poor breeding, but an equal number are romantics, parents, loyalists, MENSA members, and– GASP!– Christians. But the truth remains as clear as it was before I had a tattoo myself: you get a tattoo, be prepared to be a person with a tattoo.

But to all you non-inked peoples out there, remember this. I work in marketing. My job is to break people down into chewable, manageable, judgeable personality archetypes. I need to be able to pinpoint who cares about what and when and how. And while there my be information about the kind of people who buy Corvettes (Latinos, single men with small penises making somewhere between 55-80K, and lottery winners), eat Twinkies (poor people and stupid people), and what it takes to get elected president (one word and 350 million dollars), there is no algorithm for defining the kind of person who gets a tattoo.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, tattoos are for sailors, whores, and debutantes too.