She Get it From Her Momma

I have a little advice for ya kiddies: Never attempt to cook dinner right after you've woken up from a nap because a few things will happen. First, you will burn the shit out of your fake chicken patty, next you will take 20 minutes to open a can of green beans, then you will clean your roommate's dirty dishes and finally, you will find yourself standing in the middle of the kitchen talking to yourself, asking, "What else do I need? What do I need...in my life...personally?" 

So that is how this post is starting. I am honestly still waking up, so cool your jets. 

This weekend I decided to do just about everything to prove to the world I am, in fact, having a quarter-life crisis. (Side note, the old 25th birthday is less than a month away.)

Friday, I went to the pool to catch some rays and ended up being bitten by mysterious bugs. Then a great dark cloud sat on the sun's face and told me I should go inside and take a nap. Well, I took that nap and guess what? I woke up the next day at 8:45 a.m. My old ass had skipped the early bird special entirely, gone straight to bed and comatosed it until the next morning! And you know what, it wasn't like the Disney movies. No fucking cute blue birds were singing at my windowsill to wake me up and welcome me to this bright and beautiful Saturday. So instead, I picked up my phone and started making some calls. I called an old roll dog and we decided to get brunch -- obviously somewhere with copious amounts of alcohol.

After two VERY stiff (*thank you Busboys and Poets*) mimosas, there was all kinds of crazy talk going around about renting bikes, riding to the beer garden, drinking like Germans and then getting a second tattoo. Well, we hopped on our federally-funded Obama bikes and rode off to the Biergarten Haus and proceeded to drink very large beers and talk about life. And somehow during the conversation we broached the subject of the logistics of scissoring. So there we were, a girl and her dude friend, sitting at a picnic table watching videos of scissoring on an iPhone. Then we decided to Yelp tattoo parlors, because that is a totally normal and reliable thing to do. The original place I wanted to go did not have any openings that day, so I settled for a place that a friend used to apprentice for. So after a parting shot of jager, we hopped on our bikes (and almost died trying to travel through DC's Caribbean Carnival) and made our way to the shop. I was in and out in about 30 minutes, leaving with a permanent reminder on my wrist that reads, "I am. I am. I am." I even convinced my roll dog to get one...or maybe that was the jager. Anyway, I left a little scared and a lot happy. I took a bunch of ridiculous photos of it with my iPhone right outside the shop...didn't want the artist to see me taking off the bandage, you know, I am not quite that badass.

So Sunday rolls around and I have plans to go sky diving. I will repeat, I have plans to jump out of a m*tha f*ckin plane (emphasis by Samuel L. Jackson). As I am suiting up for my dive, one of the carnies working there noticed I had a large bandage on my wrist and asked if I had poison ivy as well. I replied, "No, I just got a tattoo yesterday. Trying to keep it clean." (So don't step any closer.) Then my tandem instructor, a short peppy woman from Macedonia, says "You got a tattoo yesterday and now you are sky diving, what is wrong with you?" It was like word vomit full of honesty. I flat out said, "Well, I am having a quarter-life crisis. This is it." She laughed and assured me we would have a good time.

And we had an amazing time. I was completely calm until the rickety plane door was thrown open at about 10,000 feet. I remember sticking my legs out, hesitating, then having my instructor push my ass out of the seat. Let me just say...it is an interesting feeling free falling towards the Earth at 160 mph. I wasn't sure if I was going to let out a stream of explicit and inappropriate curse words or let out a stream of urine. Once I finally realized I was falling through the air and there was no way to stop and nothing to grab on to, I realized I was fucked. Just kidding, I realized I was not in complete control for once in my life and it felt GREAT. It was a rush and it was beautiful. The wind was cold and the clouds engulfed us. Then came the scenic farmland dotted with mountains in the distance. When I got to the ground there wasn't much I could say. My legs were a little shaky and I wanted to just run around screaming about how awesome it was.

I called my parents that night to let them know I survived and wasn't burning in plane wreckage somewhere in Hicksville, Va. My father was pretty excited -- like a little boy -- asking questions faster than his mouth could form the words. From the background I could hear my mother screaming, "Don't you ever do that again!"

Which brings me to my decision to tell them about my two tattoos. I took the wimp route on this one and wrote them an e-mail. Yelling is clearly less defined via gmail

I got the responses I thought I would. My sister said she still loves me and is happy I am doing what makes me happy. My mom said she doesn't understand it but she still loves me. And my dad was the most supportive, even expressing his own interest in becoming a pirate. "I'm still thinking about an earring....can't come to grips with it yet. If I got a tat, I guess a sail boat might work or a cresting wave," he said.

My mom was a little disconcerted about the fact that my wrist tattoo is a quote from The Bell Jar, and as my dad put it "she thinks there maybe a "dark" side to the meaning of the wrist Tat...her being an expert on things and knowing about both the book and the author..."  Well she most certainly thinks she is the expert on most things and perhaps that is where I get it from. In fact, I know that is where I get it from.

Let's break it down real quick. The quote comes from a scene in The Bell Jar right after the main character attempts to kill herself but hears her heart beating, saying "I am. I am. I am." Also, the author, Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven and killed herself. So, yes it has a little bit of a strange background. But I take the quote to mean something different and less sinister. It symbolizes something bigger than me. Something bigger than self pity: the body's desire to live. The heart is a stubborn mule reminding us that we are alive and we exist. Something I can sometimes get caught up in and forget. 

And I would just like to remind my audience that mother is the same woman who last week declared she was changing her name to Ghost Face Killah. Oh and when she was 13, she snuck off to this little festival called Woodstock...and you know she wasn't there for the sno-cones and flower headbands. (Did they have sno-cone refreshments? I just assumed they would.) She also used to take her friends' parent's cars out for joyrides and stick records down her pants and walk out of the store. And sometimes I want to rip her face off when we are around each other for too long, but I take a step back and realize we are disgustingly similar. And I am totally ok with her name change. Love you Mom.