One of the fundamental rules of chronic illness is look respectable and worthy of services when visiting the doctor.
This is difficult enough for me at the best of times; with a collection of tights decimated by cycling trauma, and a wardrobe appropriate either for mucking about on boats or performing in front of an audience, definitely a challenge.
But the main problem, of course, is the tattoo.
It honestly never occurred to me that anyone would treat me any differently because there is a picture on my arm. The first time it happened the tattoo was still fresh, I was in a museum in NYC, and a security guard decided to be my new best friend.
I thought that encounter was a fluke, but a very specific sort of muscled short-haired bouncer has been a constant presence ever since, all over the world. It happens at shows, at galleries, in the Lego aisle at Hamley’s.
This makes no sense to me, as my essential physical attributes (or as Moe used to say, skills) are exactly the same, and I wear mostly the same clothes. But apparently, if my arm is exposed, I am obligated to talk to strangers.
At first I had no tricks to defer the attention — the most significant example was the time I literally ran away from a guard at the Vatican, leaving a very amused Gabriel to inform the fellow that I am shy.
I nearly assaulted a bouncer in Hell’s Kitchen who wouldn’t let me leave a bar (I considered breaking his fingers but instead just… moved him aside). Eventually I learned to smile and answer questions before inching away: No, it didn’t hurt. I don’t know how long it took, maybe ten hours. I don’t know how much it cost, I didn’t pay for it. I had it done in a city far, far away. Um, okay, gotta go…
Waiters in France pet my hair and sing to me. Old navy vets glare. And of course there was the incident with the Holocaust survivor. These encounters, without exception, only happen if I have on short sleeves.
Covering up the arm for a hospital appointment, then, is critical. I need to find not only a clean, intact, modest garment – but one that reaches at least to my elbow.
Sigh.
At least it takes my mind off the fact that I do not enjoy being a first generation mutation.