Lemme See the Whole Thing

For the past few weeks I've been thinking about this summer, if I would continue this project, and how I'd manage it if I did. It was one thing to use this as a filter for my interactions, and interesting to see the results. It's completely different to know and anticipate the results. The past two days have made that very clear.

Sunday evening I was on the train after meeting an author I greatly admire. I was laughing at the illustration he drew beside his autograph, when my slightly drunk, but very friendly seatmate initiated a conversation about my sleeve and her fears of getting tattooed. "So it begins. May 23, 1 interaction," I thought as we were talking. Yesterday I was waiting for the train downtown, trying to read a paper when someone yelled from across the platform: “HEY! You work in a tattoo shop?” I kept reading; he repeated the question and walked over. “That tattoo go all the way up your arm? Roll up your sleeve. Lemme see the whole thing.” I tried to be polite, but I was talking through clenched teeth. Less than an hour later, in one of my favorite thrift stores, a woman said she loved my tattoo, but couldn’t get any more because of a heart condition. Then she ran her hand down my arm and said to a little boy “Look at her arm. Isn’t it pretty?” She apologized for touching me while she was still holding my arm. Outside the store she asked who did my work.

From August 4th until September 10th last year I maintained this blog. I spent four days in San Francisco and three days covered because it was cold. So in roughly a month I logged 59 interactions. Guess what kiddies? It’s only the first two days of short sleeve weather, and it’s not even June. If last year’s numbers and my remedial math are accurate, I’m going to talk to nearly 200 strangers this summer.

I like summer. Hell, I live for summer. I make up errands to give myself a destination, so I can get out of my stuffy apartment, walk and feel the sun. I know, most people are polite, most people are friendly, but really, I just want to run my errands in fucking peace and not have to wonder when a stranger will touch me.
It makes me nervous. It makes me feel mean inside. I don't like feeling mean.

Today I went to another thrift store and bought several lightweight long-sleeve shirts. Unbuttoned, with a tank top, only a few of my chest tattoos are visible, and they’re not that impressive. The shirts are fairly loose, and the sleeves will protect the ink. In camo cargo shorts two sizes too big, tank top, shirt, and beat-up Docs, the only comment anyone made to me today was a guy who actually said “Hey sweetheart, how you doing?”

Did I really look like his fucking sweetheart?