Under your skin

I’m often called rebellious. Obstinate. Or in other words: a pain. Rules are there to be kicked against. It’s so satisfying to watch everything tumble down. But what you see isn't what I see. I’m always looking out from the inside anyway. I don’t see myself—I’ll never truly see myself in three dimensions. But I’m rambling. So, no rules—and if there are: kick 'em over.

I see you’re leaning back a little. And you hesitated for a second when I reached out my hand to you. Even before I spoke a single word. But I can see the curiosity in your eyes, too. I’m going to assume you want to hear the rest.

That’s how I’ve ended up in plenty of tight spots. Anyone who’s constantly asking 'But why, though?' won't last a full soccer game without being subbed out long before halftime. Or even play a simple board game without it becoming an issue.

To get back to what people see versus what I see: when I see myself, it’s always a mirror image, so keep that in mind. My left ear is on the right. That chipped tooth you see on the right? To me, it’s on the left. But that’s not really what I mean. Between my left and right ear—no matter which side they’re on—is me. Right there, right behind that chipped tooth.

My only rule is that I make my own rules. Are you still with me?

So, don't go thinking I’m just living life recklessly. Quite the opposite. My rules are logical and justified. They actually make sense. For instance, I find it only natural that a man should lift the seat, but a woman should be the one to put it back down. Yeah, exactly—I’m talking about the toilet seat. You think that’s a bad example? Think again. How many arguments have been sparked by this, worldwide, day in and day out? See? There you go.

Oh, you want another example? Let me see if that fits within my rules. Haha—gotcha there, didn't I?

I can't tell you the best example. At least, not in a single sentence. So, make yourself comfortable. Just, no dirty feet on the couch, please. And no smoking inside. The dog stays on the floor, and if you’re putting your glass on the table, use a coaster. Thank you.

Anyway, I was in the hospital. Nothing serious, but I had to stay for a few nights. In the middle of the night, I feel a hand on my arm. There’s always light in those miserable hospital hallways, so with my head still groggy from sleep, I looked at the hand, then up, following the arm. I saw a massive, ugly tiger head tattoo. I bolted upright. Alarm bells. Danger, I slammed the call button.

Do you get what I’m saying? I saw a tattoo. In the middle of the night, granted. Anyway, a whole lot of commotion followed, but as I was slamming that button, I kept looking up, past the arm… into the face of an old lady. A sweet little old lady, you know, in a floral nightgown.

That’s weird, right? You’re looking at me like I’m just making all this up as I go. But with your permission, I’ll keep going.

She was gently stroking my arm. “For you,” she whispered, pressing a glass of water in my hand. Meanwhile, a nurse had come bursting into the room. They’d figured out within a few hours that if I hit the button, they’d better get there fast. Hahaha.

So, the situation was this: me, lying helpless in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV. With an old lady in a nightgown and a stressed-out night nurse staring at me, waiting for an explanation.

"Oh, Mrs. Willow,” the nurse said—and damn it, she was paying way more attention to the tattooed lady than to me, the defenseless patient. 'Are you back on the clock again?' She gently took the glass of water from her hands and put an arm around her, carefully leading the lady out of my room. A few minutes later, she came back. 'Sorry for the disturbance. Mrs. Willow worked here as a nurse for forty years. Unfortunately, she’s a bit confused now and has been admitted as a patient herself.' That certainly explained part of the incident. But that tattoo was still bugging me. And an ugly, roaring tiger, of all things! Why not a beautiful butterfly, or something else delicate and feminine? It didn't add up.

So, I asked the nurse about it.

Does that strike you as odd? No? Then why did your eyebrow just twitch like that? Are you still curious about the answer? To be honest, I couldn't care less. If you don’t want to hear it, just stick your fingers in your ears. Hahaha.

The nurse gave me a brief look. 'Did you find it inappropriate?' she asked. 'Do you feel like a sweet old lady shouldn't have a tough tattoo? That it’s something reserved for the tight skin of tough young men?'

Now I got the feeling this nurse had me pegged as narrow-minded. That didn’t sit well with my rebellious nature. But as I started explaining—maybe a bit bluntly—why I’d asked about the tattoo, it hit me. It was worse than being narrow-minded.

Do you feel what I’m getting at? There goes that eyebrow of yours again, huh? I saw that the very first time you looked at me, by the way. But I’ll get back to that in a bit.

Anyway—back to the old lady. The nurse sat down at a stool beside my bed. She took a deep breath. Then, after a short moment of silence, she told me that Mrs. Willow’s granddaughter was very sick. They didn’t know if she’d pull through. As these things go, they started talking about what she still wanted to do with the time she had left. Getting a tattoo was one of them. Mrs. Willow—who wasn’t so confused back then—shouted that she’d get one too. She told her granddaughter to pick out the biggest, ugliest one she could find for her. That old hide of hers was already covered in age spots and warts anyway, and how much longer would she even have to look at it? At least they’d have a laugh, and the memory would stick.

Oh, is that a tear I see in the corner of your eye? How touching.

Now I want to know: do you think I’m narrow-minded? Or do you get why I’m telling you this, even though we were talking about the rules I make for myself? Fine, forget it. I can see from that blank look on your face that you’re totally missing the point.

Then I’ll let you in on my sacred 'I will never' rule: 'To judge based on appearances.'

BAM. Rule broken. Back in your hole, with your tail between your legs.

And for a lawyer, no less.

Is that fear in your eyes? Or is it shame? Realization? Stunned silence?

I know it’s not just because I mentioned I’m a lawyer. I’m going to take it a step further. I love going on ski trips.

There. That hit home, didn’t it?

Sometimes it’s nice to share your own mistakes. And to watch them be repeated right then and there.

You didn't expect that, did you, when you first saw me?

A skiing lawyer.

With dark skin.