On Little Victories (Or, Pictures of You - But Actually Me...)

Strap yourself in, dear reader, because I have a confession to make.

Remember my post about my first tattoo? Not to brag or anything, but it's my most read piece, which makes what I'm about to say that much worse. You may recall that said post was punctuated with a photo of myself with Janet Varney, performer/producer/podcaster extraordinaire and creator of the content that led to my wrist buddy. It's a cute picture. A cute picture that harbors a terrible secret.

Are you ready for it?

...

I have food on my face.

Man. It feels good to let that go.

I realized it almost immediately, of course - it was just a wee bit of curry ketchup (all that remained of the top notch vegan hot dog I'd consumed about 10 minutes prior, thanks, Outside Lands), barely noticeable. Virtually impossible to notice, in fact, unless you were looking for it. But I knew it was there, and had to face the grim reality that it would always be there, haunting me. The question was, would I be able to suffer in silence?

Now, I say, "suffer," like I didn't immediately put it in a blog post less than 24 hours later and use it as my Facebook profile picture for months. Perspective, guys. I do sort of have it.

I did keep the secret for well over a year, though I finally told my best friend and one or two other trusteds when I couldn't take it anymore. Who knew this baby spot of ketchup would become my way less murdery Tell-tale Heart?

I didn't know Janet very well then. I know her better now, and trust her pretty implicitly based on how that's gone. What I'm saying is, in the time between those two points, I probably definitely could've explained the situation and asked for another picture to eradicate the shame. Friends do that. Unless your friend is me, because I am a ridiculous person.

Cut to the last weekend in March. I was in Seattle for a long overdue visit, prompted in part because my favorite places from when I used to live up there keep closing (R.I.P, Piecora's and the Easy Street on Mercer). It was a visit I'd planned to coincide with Emerald City Comic Con, which I'd loved and always regretted not attending every year I was in school. It was a special con for a lot of reasons. It was an emotional con for a lot of reasons. Partway through, I had to start wrestling with the reality that I was losing a family member back home. It was a much more overwhelming and raw trip than I ever could've known when I bought my tickets last fall. That's life, you know? I don't believe the universe punishes you, but it's a little harder to remember that it also doesn't play by your rules.

I'm letting you know all this because I want to make it clear that on the last day of the con, when I placed myself squarely at the back of Janet's last signing line, it was with a serious mission. She was a guest, obviously, and we'd gotten to see each other already. I'd even asked my first question ever at a convention during her panel the day before, as it had seemed like the safest place to do it (also probably my last question at a convention, because it was still horrifying). Under other circumstances, I probably would've texted, "Bye," and gone on living my life. But, like I said, I was a little raw and a little overwhelmed. So sure, I wanted to say a proper goodbye to a friend that I don't see very often, but more than that, I wanted a victory. I wanted to make up for Foodgate '13.

Janet checked in with me about what was going on in my life, because she is a good person. I lost my composure and cried for a minute, because I am a human person. After that, we got down to business. I laid out the tragic story of our only existing picture together, and she agreed that we needed to rectify the matter. Then, to my surprise, I added this: "Also, I don't even look like myself in that picture." It was not a thought I'd shared, publicly or privately, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was true. Take a look at this (I'm the brunette, duh).

That girl is six months away from coming out, and that honesty is going to finally let her settle into her life. She's stiff and she's nervous. You can't tell, but she's wearing a dress, and while she knows how to do it, it doesn't feel quite right - it's a style, not her style. Soon she's going to learn how to tie a bow tie, and that's going to change everything. Almost a year to the day later, she's going to sit in a salon with the hair she'd been growing out for lack of a better idea and say, "I want something different, but I don't know what," and because her stylist is a genius, she's going to walk out looking exactly the way she didn't even know she wanted to (one of her favorite fictional characters will follow suit soon after, and she will be unabashedly smug about it). She's going to start running and she'll learn how to ride a bike and just start doing a whole mess of stuff that terrifies her. That girl is going to remake herself, not to spite who she is, but because of who she is.

And the thing is, I love that picture. Food (can you see it?!?!?!) be damned, it's kind of the beginning of a friendship that I value very much, and it's a stop on a big journey that's gotten me to a place where I feel more like myself - physically, mentally, artistically - than I ever have. The girl in that picture has a lot of work ahead of her, but she fucking did it, you know? She took that on.

The result of that work is that I feel so at home in my body now. I'm nesting within myself, building better foundations and hanging art and decorating exactly the way I want to. Boys and girls are allowed here now. My outside matches my inside, and it's so much easier to move and breathe and be. Because of that, while I do feel total affection for the photo above, I can't look at it and say, "Hey, there's CDog being CDog."

Suddenly, my little victory wasn't about pure vanity anymore. It was about the fact that I had gotten up that morning after a rough night and still put on a shirt and tie because it made me happy. It was about the fact that I stood in line and engaged strangers in conversation. It was about the fact that I let myself feel my feels for a second and be supported by a friend, and despite all of that, still wanted to take a picture. And not the super posed awkward prom picture that I take with strangers. A good, proper, here's-me-making-the-face-I-make-when-I'm-relaxed-because-pictures-are-ridiculous picture.

...and it was about vanity. A little bit.

The girl below? She looks like me. And she's got a lot more stuff ahead of her. Some of it's going to suck royally. Some of it's going to be totally rad. But check it out. I think she's going to be okay, don't you?

On My Tattoo (Or, Hey Guys, I Got a Tattoo)

So I got a tattoo a few months ago.

I wasn't planning on saying anything about it, as it was something that I did for myself and shouting about it on the internet right after would've felt like cheapening the moment somehow. However, enough time has passed (3 real life months is basically the same as 3 cyber years) and enough people have noticed it to make me realize that I really need to get better at telling this story.

So.

I got a tattoo a few months ago. Truth be told, it's not something I ever thought I'd do - not because of a problem with tattoos, but because of the permanence of it all. If you're going to have something etched onto your body, I feel like you've really got to be committed. Emotionally, I totally was. I knew exactly why I wanted to do it and what I wanted it to mean. The problem was settling on a visual that would represent that. Several times, I thought I had it, and I'd walk around all smug and satisfied and bad-ass-here-we-go until my old friend doubt would show up and ruin the party.

And here's the thing - I'm all about telling doubt to frak off, because otherwise I wouldn't get anything done. Ever. However, there are exceptions to just about every rule, and if your brain is saying, "Don't put that on yourself forever, idiot," maybe pay attention.

This went on for years - actual years - past my initial, "Maybe I'll get a tattoo...," thought, until I settled into a happy holding pattern of, "Yup, maybe I will, but really probably never..."

Then a thing happened.

At the beginning of May, I went to see Jen Kirkman at the Punch Line. She was doing a stand-up set followed by a book signing, and I was totally on board for all of that. I went alone, because I accepted long ago that while there would be plenty of things in life I'd be able to do with other people, sometimes I'd be the only one who wanted to go somewhere or do something. Flying solo is way preferable to missing out. However, there were two drawbacks to being by myself that evening: 1) There was nobody to watch my tea (shut up, it was cold and I don't drink alone) when I had to go to the bathroom, and very special episodes of every show I watched growing up told me this would lead to me being roofied (I wasn't). 2) I had no wingman to make sure I didn't make an ass of myself during the signing.

'Cause listen, I've had the honor and pleasure of attending several events that have given me the opportunity to meet people I think are awesome, and I love it. There's something kind of soul satisfying about looking someone who's given you a gift through a performance or a book or what have you in the eye and saying, "Thank you for making this thing that inspired me or helped me or just made me happy, and thank you for being here right now and signing this or taking this picture or whatever." The challenge is making those words come out of my mouth. I'm a human being. A shy, nervous, overthinker of a human being.

So while I stood there after the show, first in line (my secret signing nightmare), waiting and wishing I hadn't insisted on finishing that second tea, I decided that the exchange would go one of two ways: A) I would say, "Great show," and, "Thank you!" and then hope that my hands would stop shaking by the time I got to my bus stop, or B) I would say both of those things, then go the extra mile and mention that I'd really enjoyed her episode of The JV Club podcast, because I had.

I've spent so much of my life as an option A girl - safe but scared. That night, emboldened by nothing but green tea, I decided to go with B. And it went well. I left giddy, happy with the exchange and proud of myself for opening my mouth and saying words. A year ago, I wouldn't have done that. A year ago, I would've gotten dry-mouthed and tongue-tied and died a little because that's what any kind of social situation with strangers does to all of us (right?!?!?). Personal. Growth.

By the time I got on my bus, I knew. I knew what I wanted my tattoo to be. It was so clear, so beyond doubt, that it didn't even pop into my head as, "I think this is what I'll do," so much as, "This is it, duh."

The aforementioned JV Club podcast (which I posted about here), hosted by Janet Varney and full of hilarity, sincerity, and everything in between, has been kind of a game changer for me in the best of ways. It's so honest and thought-provoking and therapeutic that my actual therapist is pretty much giving me bonus points for being a listener (disclaimer: I don't think therapists actually give you points). Without going into extreme detail, the podcast has helped me move past so many of the roadblocks I put up in my own life through the simple act of helping me feel like I'm not alone, and I'm a better person for it. Not only that, I feel motivated to keep becoming a better person.

It's kind of funny and awesome that someone who's peripherally been a player in my life for years - Janet's been involved in a bunch of stuff that I'm a fan of and, along with Cole Stratton and David Owen, co-founded SF Sketchfest, which is pretty much Second Christmas - now feels kind of like a friend that I hang out with via headphones for an hour a week and just don't talk to. The conversations on the podcast are that casual and natural and fantastic.

I got the JV Club logo tattooed on my left wrist on May 19th by Kevin at Cold Steel. It's there to remind me that I make an active choice every single day to not be the frightened, angry person I was for so long. It's there to remind me that I am capable of getting through bad days (or months, or years), because they're still going to happen. It's also there to remind me that I have a gorgeous, phenomenal life full of love and light and pure joy that will just keep getting better if I get out of my own way. Once it was on my wrist, I knew I'd made the right call, because it felt like it always should have been there.

So I guess, what I'm trying to say is thanks, doubt. You helped me hold out for something pretty rad this time.

Side note: The day I got my tattoo also happened to be Bay to Breakers here in SF. If you're a runner, it's a race. If you're most of the city, it's a reason to put on a spandex tiger costume and start drinking in the street at 10 AM. Every year, I say I'm going to stay in the house all day, and every year, I manage to forget and make plans. However, the staff at the shop seemed to genuinely appreciate that I was sober and that my best friend, who accompanied me, did not have a tambourine.

Public Service Announcement: You can't donate blood for a year after getting a tattoo. I had a mini-crisis of conscience when I looked this up, because I'm a regular donor (and an in-demand type O donor, which just made it worse) and suddenly felt wildly selfish. I eased my guilt (a little) by donating a couple days before my appointment, and while it's maybe ill-advised to schedule back-to-back activities that result in blood loss, it all worked out. Consider donating in my stead and visit your local blood bank today.

When my best buddy Jennie got her tattoo a few years ago, I was on hand (literally - she's a hand holder) for the experience, and she was always adamant about returning the favor. I am not a hand holder, however, so she took my phone and documented the occasion. Pics after the jump.