Soap box moment. It will call it......mini box. Short one cuz Ive got drinkin and shoppin to do. I went out to Food Kitty (Food Lion for out of towners) today to pick up some wine and a couple of last minute things we forgot to grab on the main run today. I am wearing conservative workout pants and a long grey not fitted sweatshirt of sorts with sneakers. It does however, have a wide neck/shoulder opening for those wanting to sport the flashdance look. Inevitably, it does slide off my shoulder. As you can imagine, this close to Thanksgiving, the place was crowded with last minute shoppers. I am standing in the baking supplies isle, pondering the meaning of life, and there are a few others standing there with me. Among this crowd of pensive people, there was an older lady (late 60s ish) to my left. The kind of older lady that just LOOKS like she has a corn cob housed up her bum. Just has that sort of body language; that stance and jaw set; the wardrobe. Anyway, I am trying to remember what the hell I was out of while standing here staring at the options (like everyone else with us at that moment). She sees me come stand next to her to stare at the same area as her. She looks over at me (she is on my left) and immediately snaps to my left shoulder. Which, at the moment, is showing a good section of pink and green. My cherry blossom and foliage background. I am not really paying her any mind until the point where i feel like I am being watched. I look over at her and I swear to the gods that she is firing laser beams into me. The look I have become used to. The you heathen look. I am looking over at her now because I am like, why this hell this crazy old bat staring at me. I notice, just a moment before she flicks her eyes up to mine, that she is clearly examining my tattoo. So I whip out my standard response to such. I stare at her. She is now looking straight into my eyes/face. My favorite thing about these sorts of exchanges? When I make guilt pour out of their eyes. Because they got busted judging a book by its cover. I make that direct, raw eye contact and what is looking at them is not a blank stare. I would like to think what they see staring back at them is my soul. The depth and breadth of it. She awkwardly averted her eyes and shuffled a few paces down the aisle at the point. And I...was left there to try and remember what the hell I ran out of that I needed for Thanksgiving dinner. Which, for those of you keeping score, I didnt manage to remember til I got home and started on the wine. Ill brave the wilds again tomorrow to fetch it. The soap box here? I, sometimes, get really tired of being judged. Even before I started on the visible tattoos, it was a height thing or a gender thing or (back in the svelte days) a body thing. I know that sounds mundane, but I promise you it wasnt/isnt. People are constantly judged for their bearing, their tattoos, their jobs, their income, the way they dress, or whatever. While I love being a champion for the tattoo community whenever possible, I shouldnt have to be. Why in the world does someones packaging matter more than the contents to so many people? I have friends that I treasure that span all makes and models of people. Fat, thin, black, white, brown, yellow, gay, bi, introverts, extrovert, weirdos, mainstreamers, whatever. I love them all because of who they are. I dont see colors or races or orientation, or clothes when I look at them. I see who they are. The people they are. Why the hell is that such a difficult thing for so many people? I will share with you a happy moment in the land of no judgement eutopia: I went to an auction with my mom Kate. Somewhere in nowheresville South Carolina. Very impromptu. We hadnt really planned on going. I had on a tank top and jeans. Generally speaking, when I know I am going into mixed company, I wear something to cover my back (theres exposed breasts back there. I do try to keep it filtered). Anyway, long story short, I made a point to sit at the back of the room so no one had to stare at the boobs on my back. I went outside for a smoke break. As I was walking back in, a dapper fellow who could not have been day younger then 80 dressed in his Sunday best, stopped me. As always, I was incredibly respectful because I was raised to respect and covet my elders. And he was a hot shit done all up and proud. He stopped me to tell me that he thought my tattoos were beautiful. He said he thought they were the most beautiful tattoos he had ever seen and that he enjoyed looking at them. He said he was sorry if he was intruding but he thought I should know how much he loved them. I was humbled at that moment. Simply because someone of this proud bearing, that had lived through so much (clearly), stopped to take time out of his day to tell me that. Faith in humanity went up a bunch. That made my day. Soapbox is: stop being assholes in general. Why the hell does it matter what someone looks like or how they dress or where they came from etc? Are they an asshole? if you dont know that, how in the world did you pass judgement? It wasnt so short was it? Yeah, well, whatever. I was on a tear. Ill send you a check for your time. Post dated.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Nov 2014 04:06:57 +0000
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