oh, sorry, sorry

Ladies, why is it that we cannot approach the same door, simultaneously, from either side without apologizing to each other?

Here’s a handy reenactment from the office.

As I approach the ladies’ room door, as I do, sometimes dozens of times everyday, the door is pulled open before me. The woman who begins to emerge says, “Oh, sorry,” as I immediately breathe out, without thinking, “Sorry.”

Here’s another reenactment. Similar, but with a slight variation. Still at the office, because I pee there a lot.

After yet another gallon of fake-tea-flavored water, I approach the ladies’ room door. This time, I turn the handle & begin to push the door in. (I rarely push very hard, as I am extremely sensitive to the fact that there is often another person smack-dab on the other side of it, just praying for me not to send them sailing into the wall or ass-ending them onto the floor.) Typically, before the door is fully open, I’m face-to-face with whoever was trying to exit the bathroom before I arrived to open the door & fuck everything up for her. I immediately spit out, “Sorry,” as I’m met with, “Oops, sorry” from my now-blocked-into-the-bathroom peer.

But why? Why do we apologize because we’re both trying to use the same door from different directions? Is it dick to not apologize, to merely open the door & say nothing, or stand aside as they open the door & say nothing?

I’ve decided to take a stand beginning today. I will not apologize for being on the other side of the door. Let’s see how the ladies of my super-cool ad agency respond.

time of new life: 6:57 pm, march 2, 2008

That's the moment the first needle pricked my skin and changed my body forever. At the age of 34 and a day, I was finally getting the tattoo I'd dreamed of for years, nay decades.

As I'd told my other half & Bitch Cakes, I'd felt for most of my life like I'd been missing something -- something integral. My body felt naked without a piece of artwork. And I'd decided years ago that it was my right arm that really needed it. My left arm is my man's territory. He owns my ring finger & has a long-term lease on my wrist, on which I wear an elegant little watch, a gift from him.

So if my left arm belongs to my man, then my right arm -- my write arm (ba-dum-bum) -- belongs to me. And being a right-handed writer, I can't wear bracelets on my right arm -- they're irritating & get in the way. So the right arm was just a natural for ink.

The tattoo itself is my personal logo, as interpreted by Alex, my tattoo artist. The pin up girl first appeared on the cover of Flirt magazine in the 40s or 50s, & when I was in ad school, I fell in love with the drawing & adapted it for my own -- one important facet of which is her left hand, which I fashioned into a perfect Hook 'Em Horns.

I wasn't sure how well I was going to fare during the inking process. I don't typically do well with needles. I don't give blood. I don't like having it taken at the doctor's office. And the notion of immunization at my age is rather horrifying. But the tattooing process was completely different. It wasn't just pain for a loss of blood, a dot & band-aid (& possibly a bruise) on my arm, some orange drink & cookies in the event of donation & the ability to travel in malaria-infested areas in the case of immunization. It was going to result in something of great beauty.

I watched as Alex, an amazing artist in any medium, began outlining, then shading, then coloring my pin up girl. In fact, I actually enjoyed watching it. Even as I saw myself beginning to bleed, I enjoyed it. Even as the needles scraped over bones and nerves, I enjoyed it. (Check out the entire process on flickr & leave comment, if you haven't already.) Three hours went by faster than I could've ever expected. The shop, East Side Ink, full when we arrived, & bustling for the first hour or so, was empty except for Alex, my man, the shop manager and me. We paid our tab -- cash only, kids -- and walked off in the direction of the L train.


Unveiling my girl at work wasn't as dramatic as I'd expected. People I didn't expect to enjoy it responded really well, even asking about my artist, as if they might plan a visit themselves. The next hurdle, of course, is my future in-laws, but if they balk, I can add that to the list of things they don't need to understand. But it's not about whether people like it or not. It's about whether I like it or not. And, damn it, I friggin' love it.