On Body Tattoos and Piercings

I’m showing my age in this post. It will not win me any fans.

Yesterday at the grocery store the young man who checked my groceries out had tattoos on both arms from elbow to wrist and face and ear piercings in more places than I would have thought possible.

He was a nice, personable young man. He provided good customer service. I enjoyed the transaction. Still, I couldn’t get past his tattoos and piercings.

I hate tattoos.

Anywhere on the body.

Always have.

Always will.

I hate piercings.

Anywhere on the body except the ears.

I like pierced ears, on both women and men.

I even like multiple ear piercings, although I’m told it’s not good to have piercings in the cartilage, as some people do.

I pierced my own ears, with an ice cube, a cork, and a needle, when I was in college. OUCH!! The holes came out uneven. I’m considering having them redone professionally.

Back to Tattoos: I do have a few friends with tattoos, but I like them, anyway. (The friends, not the tattoos.)

Unlike my friends with their one or two tattoos, people these days get their arms, legs, and other body parts totally tattooed.

I think the only people who should wear tattoos are Polynesians. Polynesians look good in their tattoos. Their tattoos have class.

As for all the non-Polynesians with their totally-tattooed body parts, I want to ask:

What about your body made you think it would look better with tattoos?

When you’re old and your skin has turned to crepe paper and your tattoos are sagging into your wrinkles, will you still be glad you have them? Or will you wish you had never done them?

Back to Piercings: Why do you like to adorn your eyebrows, nose, lips, tongue, nipples, belly button, whatever, with studs and rings and whatever?

When you’re 80 years old, will you still enjoy having those studs and rings in your tongue and your lips and your nose and all those other body parts?

Just wondering.

Peace and joy to all tattooers and piercers anyway,

Marjorie Beck

Thanks for reading my post.

When You Know You’re Old

I am 74 years old, and I have always looked younger than my age. I inherited my mother’s good genes for youthful appearance.

I was carded in a bar on my 30th birthday.

When I turned 40 one of my colleagues at work said, “You can’t be 40! You don’t even have any wrinkles.”

Into my 50s and 60s I was constantly told I didn’t look my age.

I hit 70 and everything changed.

I woke up one morning and found I had crepe paper skin and a turkey neck.

I hardly have any eyebrows anymore. I have bags under my eyes. Granny hairs regularly sprout on my chin.

I listen to classic country music and classic rock and say of current music, “I don’t know how those kids can listen to that shit.”

It’s been ages since anyone asked me if I qualified for the senior discount.

I can’t fake it anymore. I’m old. And the world is recognizing it.

I live in Eugene, Oregon, and Eugene lives for protest rallies. I attended one recently and as I left I was accosted by two men who saw by an item I was wearing that my political views differed radically from theirs. Two young native American women who were passing stopped and told the men firmly to “stop harassing that elderly woman.”

Wow. An elderly woman. It’s finally arrived.

Now I just have to learn to live with it and “age gracefully.” YUCK. I’ll do it, but I won’t like it.

Thanks for reading my blog. If you like this post, follow me and you’ll get notices when I post new ones.

Peace and Joy,

Marjorie Beck

 

 

 

What’s With The Blog Title?

It’s time for a little something on depression. There are lots of ways to be depressed, beside the one most people think of, feeling sad and hopeless and crying all the time. Feeling sad and hopeless and crying all the time is what drove me to see my doctor in 1997, when I got my depression diagnosis.

Sadness was only one of many ways depression had me in its grip, and to explain more about that I need to start with my blog title, Wish I Could Have Been There.

It comes from the song I Wish I Could Have Been There, by John Anderson, one of my favorite country singers. The song tells of a man reflecting on all the times his occupation (country singer on the road maybe?) pulls him away from his wife and children and all the important family events he has missed.

The song came to have profound meaning for me after my depression diagnosis. It explained something about my high school reunions that always left me baffled and disturbed.

I attended University High School in Norman, Oklahoma, a small laboratory school for the College of Education at the University of Oklahoma. I was one of seventeen in the graduating class of 1962.

At one time many universities operated these laboratory schools; they were designed to provide students a solid, classical education from teachers who challenged their students to embrace learning in an atmosphere of experimentation and innovation.

Most of the schools have closed by now, which I think is a shame. Most of my classmates to this day would testify we received a superior education at our University High School. Almost of us had at least one teacher there we absolutely revered.

Being a laboratory school for the university, UHS attracted a lot of professors’ kids, and the nerd quotient was pretty high. I was not a nerd.

My family moved to Norman in 1957 from Seminole, Oklahoma, when my mother accepted an invitation to teach first grade at University School. I entered the 8th grade at the high school and quickly made friends.

By the next year I was a cheerleader, and head cheerleader my senior year. In my junior year I was homecoming queen. All through high school I ran with the really cool kids. I was very popular.

But later when I went to class reunions, other classmates would regale me with remembered stories involving me. I had no memory of many of these incidents. I laughed with my old friends as if I too remembered the events, but inside I was gobsmacked at how their memories could be so different from mine.

After I was diagnosed with depression and learned more about the illness, I finally understood why.

Depression runs in both sides of my family. After my diagnosis in 1997 at the age of 53, I recognized I had had depression most of my life. It started manifesting subtly in my childhood and grew more obvious, to me at least, as I got older.

I had lots of friends, I was popular, I had a successful career, yet often I was miserable inside. I would sometimes look forward to activities with friends and then find within an hour or so I was bored or stressed and dying to get away. Sometimes I would get irritable and lose my temper.

So one of the things about depression is that when you’re in it and feeling it, you are focusing on yourself and your own misery, not on the people around you. Like a narcissist, except the self-absorption is not about how great you think you are, but about how inadequate you feel.

Thus I may have been there physically with my high school classmates, yet far, far away emotionally. This emotional absence was true for me much of my life. It cost me friendships I didn’t have the energy to maintain. It cost me my marriage. It cost me the love of my life.

Thus the title of my blog, Wish I Could Have Been There. When I got diagnosed with depression and started taking medication, the person inside me who had been struggling to come out all those years came out. At 57 years old, I was finally the me I had always wanted to be.

I wish every day now I had been that me all along. There is so much in my life I  missed. So many bad choices and lost opportunities. So much regret.

I know, you’re not supposed to dwell on your regrets. It’s toxic.

But when you know how different your life would have been if you had escaped that depression cocoon so much earlier, it’s hard not to have regrets. So far, I haven’t figured out how to get past them.

There’s  more to tell about how depression has shaped my life, but that’s for future posts.

Thanks for reading my blog. If you like this post, follow me and you’ll get notices when I post new ones.

Peace and Joy,

Marjorie Beck