My thoughts for the past few weeks (who am I kidding - past few decades) revolve around judgment; the judgment I perceive I get from others, the judgment I have about others, and the judgment I place on myself. You see, part of my mid-life crises experiment involved getting a new tattoo last week. The what or why isn't important for my story. What is important is that it matters to me. I think it's a beautiful tribute in light of all that has happened this year, and I now have a constant reminder to be grateful for every moment.
My other tattoos are hidden from public view. The new one is on my forearm, for all to see. So as I take the train to work every morning I wonder, do people notice? Am I now regarded as less-than professional? Do I really care what these train people think? Am I not judging those 20 year old girls (yes, the same ones from hip-hop class are also on my train every day) and wondering if they're vapid, spoiled rich kids who miraculously landed an internship or consulting gig? Why do they wear pearls and no makeup, but have tan legs and giant Coach purses? I know I judge because I'll never be one of them, never was one of them, and never desired to be one of them. All the Coach purses in the world would never give me the sort of aloof and easy confidence they exude as they maneuver gracefully through the train cars and up the escalators in their commuter flip-flops and pencil skirts. I'm usually sweating and cursing under my breath while I fumble with my bags or trip on the laces of my untied Chucks. Business men never offer me their seats on the train or hold the door for me at Starbucks. Maybe they're stunned by my effervescent, womanly beauty and only gravitate toward the Pearl Girls because they look like their daughters.
I've always had these feelings, though, before my new tattoo. I've sort of always felt like a hot mess. Maybe that's why I got the tattoo in a such a visible place. Maybe I want to appear more punk, more fringe, more cool than I feel inside. But yet, I don't really fit in with the cool Tattoo Girls either. They would consider me "mainstream." I'm too weird to be normal, but I'm not weird enough to be cool.
I'm stuck in the middle with an average wardrobe, an arm tattoo, a house in the suburbs, a college education, several Coach purses crammed into the back of my closet, 14 pairs of Converse All-Stars, a set of black pearls from the Philippines (that look more like Wilma Flintstone as opposed to . . . Blythe Danner or . . . Princess Grace), and a mid-life crises that has lured me into guitar lessons, chatting on fan message boards, and a new set of vanity plates for the Jeep. Even my iPod is stuck in the middle. Sure, I love my Beastie Boys. And there is probably a ditty or two by N.W.A., Tupac or Notorious B.I.G. (True hip hop fans know that I just committed a HUGE faux pas by placing Tupac and Biggie next to each other in that sentence. Maybe those big dumb lugs will feel the love and kiss and make up. Or fist bump. Or whatever). But my iPod also contains way too much John Denver, Neil Diamond and Highlights from Andrew Lloyd Weber Musicals to be cool. I won't apologize for Chris Isaak and James Taylor, though. I love them both equally and weirdly.
But does any of this matter? Not really. I know that. Do I really go through life seeking the acceptance of others. Not really. (YES. Yes I do!) Do I have a strange obsession with seeing the little red notification symbol that pops up on Facebook whenever a friend validates me with a "Like" or a comment? (YES. Yes I do!) Am I the only one who feels this way? I haven't looked at Facebook in years, because I always ended up with Facebook envy. Come on, I can't be the only one who feels this way (i.e.: She looks so Skinny on her Vacation in Somewhere Exotic, after getting her Doctorate, and running the Boston Marathon and saving Orphans in Africa and Zip Lining through the Jungles of Somewhere Else Exotic . . . blah blah blah). Ok, just in case you're wondering, I don't have any Facebook friends who just received their Doctorate. (Yay!) But after my recent Beastie-trip to NYC, I've been on the FB a lot more, suddenly addicted to that stupid cartoon "Thumbs Up" symbol. (i.e.: Way to go! I made a funny joke! People like my blurry photo that I posted so they would know I don't always sit home on Friday night! So what if it was a Barry Manilow concert?) (I wish).
I truly believe that Facebook is a place where people post what they want others to see, not who or what they really are. I'm absolutely guilty of it too. But here, on my blog, I strive to be an example of unabashed honesty. See below:
My "Not Cool" Confessions: I don't smoke dope. I used to be terrified of Iron Maiden when I was 12. I still watch t.v. (I feel there is a new surge of non-t.v. watchers out there. I'm certainly not an addict, but I do have my shows that I love). I dressed like Laura Ingalls in first grade (complete with pinafore and bonnet). I was an English major, but I don't sit around reading "the classics" for pleasure. I don't do yoga. I don't know what a Bikram is. I still have a flip phone (thought we might get new fancy phones next weekend. Whoa, Nelly!). I don't Tweet. I'm a vegetarian, but I still eat carbs and gluten. And cheese. And wine. (What? There's no meat in wine). I say I'm a hip-hop dancer, but I'm more of an old ballerina (with too much derriere) that tries to get her funk on twice a week. I don't listen to NPR. I still call it The Google and The Facebook. The last time I saw the Beastie Boys live was in 1994. Uncool.
Who am I trying to impress? Me? Am I my biggest critic? (Probably). When I judge others, is it really because I'm being critical, or because I'm feeling envious? (The latter). So, if I feel envious, why don't I give that person a compliment? For instance: "I like your giant Coach purse" or "Your hair is so shiny . . . do you mind if I smell it?" or "Your tattoo is super cool and very punk rock. You appear very confident in your demeanor. Way to go."
I actually did give a compliment to a young woman on the train once. I told her I liked her style and that she didn't dress all uptight like most DC women. She looked very "New York" (sort of Desperately Seeking Susan - 1980s - with a little Pat Benetar). She seemed happy and surprised at my friendliness. (Most people don't talk to each other on the train, much less give out compliments like they were Free with No Strings Attached). But I think she felt weirded out when I told I saw her on the train every day, but not to worry, I wasn't stalking her. I thought it was funny. She now avidly avoids me and will get off before her stop if she ends up on my car. I'm too weird to be normal . . .
Crap. I didn't want this post to be a confessional of my insecurities. I'm curious to know if anyone else feels this way inside, even if your Facebook tells a more confident story, or if you wear your pearls proudly, or if you're tatted up from head to toe, or you actually are Pat Benetar. Do you ever feel like people are judging you, even though we all say, "Who cares"? My mom told me that feeling starts to fade away once you hit your 60s. Oh joy. Well, by then my tattoo will be faded and sagging and James Taylor will be over 80 years old. I guess she's right - nobody will care by then.
Maybe the actual point of all this (aside from not judging others by their appearance, because they're probably as screwed up in the head as you are), is not to judge yourself so harshly. My external appearance and habits have no bearing on who I am inside. Nobody on a train, or at a concert, at the mall, or even on The Facebook, can see who I really am inside. Only I am privy to that information. There is a lot of noise going on in my head, which I'm constantly trying to quiet. When you find that quiet moment, and just BE, you realize it doesn't matter the size of your ass or your Coach purse, the quality of your pearls, or the deep symbolic meaning of your tattoos. If you're a good, caring and genuine person that thinks of others, shows more empathy than sympathy, loves with reckless abandon, and is conscious of your place on this earth and the footprint you leave behind, then I think you're just fine the way you are. I guess that makes me fine just the way I am. Untied Chucks and John Denver and my constant search for Buddhist mindfulness are just some the un-cool parts of me that I love.
What un-cool parts of you do you love?
iPod TEST: Put your iPod on shuffle and list the top 10 songs that come up - no editing! Give your Facebook friends something to ponder. Here is mine. You can't make this shit up.
1. "Groove Holmes" - Beastie Boys
2. "Tell Me Something Good" - Chaka Khan
3. "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" - Harry Connick Jr.
4. "A Nest for Two" - Blinker the Star
5. "Burnin' For You" - Blue Oyster Cult
5. "Ain't it Funny (Murder Remix)" - J. Lo & Ja Rule
6. "Tennessee" - Arrested Development
7. "Flowin' Prose" - Beastie Boys
8. "Tadlock's Glasses" - Beastie Boys
9. "I'm a Believer" - Neil Diamond
10. "Me and Bobby McGee" - Janis Joplin
Until next time, with peace and gratitude. And a little bit of weirdness.
