Throughout my entire life before adulthood, people have mandated what I can and cannot do with my body. It engendered neuroses in me about people touching my neck, cutting my hair, wearing shorts, and all the rest. As I matured into a career, I have found myself surrounded with people who do not care what I really look like. My entire life I have felt intense anxiety of people looking at me, to the point where making eye-contact with someone I walk past fills me with hatred of this person I know nothing about. It is something that I still struggle with. Perhaps it is some defense mechanism.
Mostly as a joke, I have been talking with others at work about getting a face tattoo. It is interesting, the people the average person would least expect to care about it care the most. People older and wiser than me don’t really care. When I was discussing this with someone today they told me “Well, you buy physical books, so you’re good in my book.” They did not really care about me getting a tattoo other than wincing when thinking of the pain.
It won’t be anything terribly striking, something subtle behind the ears that just barely touches the temples. I don’t really care what form the art takes or where it is located. The point is not the art itself. It is in what the mere existence of the art represents to me. That I don’t care what others think about me. That even though my appearance is something that some people will never respect, that I am what I want to be. It is a litany said in response to the silent judgement of the people around me.
The inevitable reply to this apologia will concern employment. About love and dating. About when I am older.
Fuck that.
I am good at my job. I will not get fired over this act. If a position really wants to reject me because of my appearance, then that is something that I will be okay with. I will at least know that I did not conceal what or who I am in the interest of someone else.
When I meet someone who I love, whether in a platonic or non-platonic manner, it is primarily because I find them interesting as a person, regardless of how they look. The christian agape must be given all.
The people I have learned the most from in my life are the old people who moved through their time without caring what other people thought of them. They are happier. More lively. Able to be sociable and kind.
In my experience, it is not the man in the khaki pants and the collared shirt, nor the woman in the long skirt and wide-brim hat that is kind. The kindest people I have ever met are the ones with twisted titanium erupting from their chest and face and navel, looking for the light. The kindest people I have ever met are the ones with tattoos around their face that move as if a contortionist when they smile. They seem the happiest. I would like to have a chance at clinging on to that happiness. I think the secret is not the tattoos or the piercings or the body mods or the hair color in themselves. It is in the prerequisite emotions of these choices. It in the simple bliss of not caring.
One day, I will die. My skin will rot and decay. It will be eaten by a thousand worms and a million flies. The skin I love to destroy and decorate will heal as long as I am living, and then it will turn to dust. Before this skin is rendered back unto the Earth from which it came, I want it to tell a story.
This is, I think, a lot of yammering on about a tattoo. Perhaps I am still trying to justify the cost of it in my head. I often wonder if others struggle with these trivial matters as I do. I hope not. I think, in this eternal struggle in an attempt to find meaning. There is none. I will find it anyway.