the body

Tattoos Are For Closers

Leave a reply

I wanted a tattoo when I was about 19 or so. I imagined it, drew it out on paper, gave way too much mental space to it. My thought was to make a wry comment on the state of existence in my little newbie-at-adulting world. It looked a little like this, kind of, but not exactly. The idea was that the world is unpredictable, chaotic, entropic. That’s how I felt at 19.

As far as entropy… I was on to something, but back then my mindset was less optimistic than it finally grew into. (Too much Nine Inch Nails, perhaps?) The tattoo was to go on the inside of my wrist near all those little bones and on thin skin, a theoretically painful location that seemed to make the whole endeavor a tiny bit “tougher”. Because that’s how I am. If I’m going to do something painful yet common and obviously survivable, why not do it in a way that is even more painful? You know, to show my level of commitment or something. Does that mean I’d make a great Marine?

Over and over again, I decided that getting a tattoo was a really serious deal. Something that I would/could/should/oughtta personally only leap into if I really knew what I wanted. If I knew that I was committing for the long haul. If I was confident in my choice of design and of location and of tattoo artist. And that, my dears, is where things go off the rails. Because, as you can extrapolate:

I never got a tattoo.

Even now, there’s more evidence of stalling in this very piece of writing right here… I started writing a post about my recalcitrance about that tattoo at age 43. I’m now 45 and STILL I am a person who does not make decisions easily. Especially not “hard to take back” decisions. Life-changing, for sure. I can move across the country with ease. I can quit a job that I hate. I can break up with people who are not the people I need to be with (after some delay, but that’s another post).

But get a tattoo??? That shit doesn’t wash off. Even changing cities or jobs or relationships seems less “permanent” than getting a tattoo. So, no, I do not have one.

And that’s not how you make life changes, as I should well know by now. Waiting for the right time, the right image, the right artist, even the right story. But all of that… it’s just stalling and foot dragging and denial.

“Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.” – Doris Lessing

Ask nearly everyone you know with tattoos (even one), and it’s a common story that they do not attach deep personal meaning to their first ink. It was something they just did. It looked neat. They had a spur of the moment urge. Maybe they were drunk. It happens. No. Big. Deal. After the first, maybe they then wanted more. Maybe they wanted some with grandiose meaning. Or not. Maybe they got a few more also for fun, or maybe they stopped. I know quite a few people with just one, from a long time ago and a personality they barely even know anymore. They don’t regret it but they also don’t have a strong urge to continue this “body as canvas” direction.

Is 2020 the year?

Signs point to YES. I’m both more emotionally free from fear of commitment and more enraptured with images that inspire ink. Circles, moon phases, heart expansion, and trees are all on my mind.

……..

Title of this post gleefully stolen/adapted from a play/film you should watch to see dialogue in masterful action: Glengarry Glen Ross, the “coffee is for closers!” scene.

My Veins Are Blue, Impressive, And Not Girly

3 Replies

Like Madonna (if the tabloids have managed to reveal truth), I have a body full of visible, proud veins. They’re impressive and decidedly not girlish. The backs of my calves have a few starting to poke out. My feet are a roadmap of blue pathways and beige flesh. My inner forearms, a streaky aqua. The backs of my hands, well, they’re the masterstroke: aggressive pale worms poke out under the thin skin like snakes in a sock.

When it comes to blood draws and plasma selling — pocket money in college — I’m a favorite patient for their needle. Blood draw folks LOVE me — sometimes a little too much. They would see the vein in my inner elbow and send over the noobs to practice on my willing tubes of fluid, only once ever to ill effect.

Veiny arm with blue streaks.

Blood plasma folks love this arm.

Accepting My Big Blue Roadmaps

It took a long time to like those veins, let alone appreciate them for what they do. It’s only recently that I’ve realized they are metaphors for much of my personality, in all its strengths and weaknesses.

For starters, I have low blood pressure, an inward mirror of my outward unflappability. Getting a rise out of me is nearly impossible, figuratively and literally. Sometimes I get dizzy standing up, as the blood struggles to get back up to my brain from my strong legs. In a similar way, my brain suffers a bit of existential pain when it realizes it’s along for some epic day (or days) my legs took us on out in the mountains. The low blood pressure directly contributes to the bulging calf veins: the blood *needs* pressure to get back up the body. If not enough pressure, too much blood pools down low and that stretches out the veins. Simple mechanical process, not a pretty aftermath. So, too, can my unflappability and slowness to action cause my whole life to “pool” in one spot, unable to progress onward and upward.

What makes the veins so visible? That’s a slightly different question. Perhaps my skin is thinner than average. In outward temperament I often look impenetrable, unperturbable, cold. But those veins stand out in the open, trusting, showing their hand without much apology.

Feminine Hands Contain No Veins

Then, there’s the prettiness or feminine aspect of having “man hands”. Since young I’ve always been not-quite-a-tomboy. Not wanting to be typical, I actually relished the descriptor of “weird!” as a kid. And yet still I wanted to be liked for my own strange brand of girl power. There’s vulnerability in showing off those strong veiny calves and downright masculine hands and saying, “THIS IS ME. I contain possibilities not yet fulfilled, potential still to be tapped out of this pulsing stuff of life.” Blood courses through me just like everyone else. The evidence of said blood is much more visible on my body through these bulging tubules of turquoise.

My veins are both me and represent me. They’re bold, unafraid, barely hidden, full of life . . . and sometimes prone to stagnation, weaker than they could be, and gender-inappropriate.

I think they’re pretty rad.

Well-veined hands typing at the computer

Man hands, typing this post.

 

[Also published on Medium as Man Hands, Girl Power]