"Are you a biker?"
At A Glance Author Marisa Contact [email protected] IAM FREE When A week ago Location Corfu, Greece
The question came from a woman with white cotton-candy hair and skin pruned by age and not the pool where our lounge chairs faced next to each other. She gave me a full denture smile and looked ready for the next question on two-wheeled adventures, but that all came to a grinding halt when I said, "No, I'm a lawyer." The smile vanished. No one wants to hear the stories of an office worker.I've been disappointing people for many years now. They see all the tattoos, my own and that of my burly biker-looking husband, and think that I'm interesting. They await my own notes from the underground when, in reality, you'll most likely find me home, on my couch with a Russian novel. At the pool, it's Nabokov.
My taste in literature didn't give me away to my fellow vacationers. Or the fact that I slathered on sun block at 20-minute intervals. Or that my beach bar drink was seltzer with two limes no ice and not something alcoholic with a parasol. My perfectly tied pareo bespoke Type A but my sleeves and backpiece screamed Harley.
I didn't let such assumptions get me down. It was only day one of our Greek island holiday and I had seven more to accomplish what I have recently deemed my life's goal: To prove that heavily tattooed people can be just as boring as the unblemished.
Some people aim high in life: End world hunger. Adopt third-world orphans. Marry Brad Pitt. I've never been that kind of over-achiever. My ambitions are rather simple and selfish: How can I change the world, so that I, Marisa, have it easier and perhaps help others incidentally? I'm not starving, not big on kids, and the man I married is infinitely hotter than Brad, so what is left? Breaking the stereotypes that disrupt my daily life because I'm heavily tattooed.
I am not a flower/gothic/punk rock wild child. I am not crafty enough to make clothes out of hand towels and safety pins.
I am not a musician/actress/artist. My only talent is putting ethics on hold while I defend clients. That, and I look good in a suit.
I am not a fetishist/cutter/masochist. I do not like pain but, like many in the mainstream, endure it for beauty. Red carpet divas love those Brazilian bikini waxes and yet no one calls them self-harmers.
I am � in all my mundane glory � fairly well adjusted. And such a life does not lead to riveting pool-side chat.
I was quite adept at making this perfectly clear to the inquisitive old lady as I told her all the fascinating details of European chemicals law and new developments in waste disposal legislation; she did not hear fantastic tales behind the meaning of my body art, whether it hurt, how much it cost, and my thoughts on what I will look like when I am just as pruney. She just nodded politely and eventually changed her seat. One down, 299 five-star guests to go.
I chose a five-star hotel for our vacation quite selflessly to pursue my goal. The stereotype of posh places is that they stereotype the heavily tattooed. I was not disappointed. Our reservations were reviewed with the utmost scrutiny. Our passports scoured with Guantanamo Bay efficacy. Yes, we belonged. We paid heavily to sleep on your high thread count sheets, lie on your private beach, perform aqua aerobics in your pool and be served a sumptuous buffet every night without giving it a second thought. We chose not to traverse the Borneo jungle for a hand-tapped rose. We chose not fly to New Zealand to hang with our tattooed Maori brothers and sisters. We chose to do nothing. Here is our credit card.
With our room ready and bell hop in tow, we set out to settle in. The stares were unnerving, particularly those of my husband who does not really share my goal and would have preferred camping on one of the island's many private coves. To help him understand, I used the language of tattoo artists: "Honey, isn't art changing the way people perceive the world? By staying at this luxury hotel, can you not see that we are engaging in an elaborate artistic project with the goal of having the masses look beyond the needled skin to the essence of our being?" To that, he did what he usually does when faced with bullshit. He farted and walked away. I was alone in my art.
Dinner was "smart dress only" so I put on a tailored black strapless number, pearls, and my new Marc Jacobs heels. I thought I looked like an heiress. The people seated next to us did not agree. They did not see tattoo couture. They saw white trash. I learned this as they spoke in Greek, trying to discern if I was "an Albanian whore" supping with my pimp of course. They were pretty confident that I could not be of Greek descent until I turned to them and said, yet again, "No, I'm a lawyer." This time we changed tables. I counted those guys as a loss.
I overindulged at the fancy dress dinners, so I eventually took my buffeted butt to the hotel gym. I didn't know it was a fancy dress gym � an unwritten rule � but one brought home by my being the only one not in Armani activewear. I wore a BME tee and cut off sweat pants � an obstacle in stereotype breaking. Unfortunately, I was not wearing the BME shirt that says "If you're staring, fuck off!", so I tried a different approach. For example, when under the glare of a Moscow-model trophy wife, I kept her gaze, smiled and said, "Hi, there. Do you like my tattoos?" I said this with all dork and no sarcasm. And it worked. She actually took a real look at my work and liked it. Svetlana (I swear that is her name) and I became friendly and regular gym buddies. Two down.
Over the course of eight days, my smile-and-bore efforts bore some juicy fruit. The wait staff pulled me aside to show me their secret tattoos. Parents let their children near me in the pool. I actually met people interested in EU waste disposal law and wowed them with my legal, and not my bodily, charms. My husband relaxed with his parasol laced cocktail and forgave me. I felt triumphant.
As we packed our bags to leave, I tucked away all the emails of guests I befriended, the ones who stared and then finally got a good look. Dan laughed at me and said I really was a work of art. And I shrugged, "No, I'm just a lawyer."