The Tale of the Strapless Bra - How my Mom found out about my first tattoo.
Now, by this point, if you've been following my blog, you know that my Dad had my car tracked with a lojack system (something that I suspected, but was never quite sure of). I suspect the lojack was why I never really had a curfew (I was always very respectful, though, calling and letting him know I was okay no matter where I was - sometimes I'd say I was in Indianapolis when I was really in Nashville, which you'd think my Dad would be happier that I was only an hour and a half from home instead of 3 hours away, but yeah... I have to laugh thinking about my youthful wanderlust.). Also, Owensboro was just a short 30 minute drive from my Dad's house, which it was a much further drive to my friend Jen's house who lived in the next county over (45 minutes away).
The tattoo. I remember very little about the experience. I remember it didn't hurt as much as I thought it was going to. I remember the guy doing it - a very skinny, long-haired guy wearing a leather vest and pants, not much taller than me and definitely, very gay. He made me feel super comfortable, which was awesome. I was nervous. I asked a lot of questions. He happily answered them, I signed the consent form and other paperwork, and after about an hour I had a fresh tattoo of an ankh on my left boob. He gave me the care instructions, congratulated me on my first piece of ink, and Jen and I went to celebrate at the local Steak and Shake.
The next morning my Dad came up to my bedroom. I remember thinking there was something up because he was acting like he was nervous. It was a way that he hadn't really acted in front of me before and I thought it was weird. His hands in his pockets, he asked me: "What'd you get up to last night, Jess?"
"I got a tattoo! Wanna see it?" That was my response. I was excited. I wanted to share my adventure. My Dad, however, did not want to hear about it. He kind of grimaced and put a hand up and said "No, that's okay." And he walked very quickly out of my room. To this day I wonder if he wanted me to lie to him? Maybe try and get me in an "aha! J'cuse!" kind of moment.
While my relationship with my Mom was more of a screaming match (I am not exaggerating, either. We would have massive screaming matches throughout my life.), my Dad and I had a completely different relationship. I never wanted to upset my Dad, but when I moved to Kentucky to go to the college where he taught (I really wanted to go to IU Bloomington and later a graphic design school in Fort Wayne, neither places I attended.), I didn't hide the fact that I did not want to be there. When I finally started making friends, the friends I made all had a reputation for marching to the beat of their own drum. We weren't bad kids, we were just finding ourselves. From a personal standpoint, and now understanding myself better, I wanted everyone to know that I was in the process of finding myself and I didn't care what other people thought.
My Dad, however, cared. He was very upset with the fact that I was like "hell yeah, I got a tattoo!" He never showed it, though. My Mom, however, was another story entirely...
A few months later when I went back to Indiana for winter break, my Mom was weird. She seemed more critical and unhappy with me than normal. By this point in my life, I knew that I could never make her happy no matter what I did, so I brushed it off. Shortly after I arrived, however, she announced to me that we were going shopping for a strapless bra.
A strapless bra.
What????
Where was this coming from? Why did I need a strapless bra? At the time, I was barely a B-Cup and there were no occasions that I would be attending that would even require me to wear a fancy dress, let alone a dress that would require a strapless bra. Shopping with my Mom always left me feeling horrible, she never liked what I picked out and often made fun of me for wanting to wear all black (which, by that point, my favorite outfit was a black tank top, black leggings, and a silk, teal kimono my Mom had used as a robe at one point but ultimately didn't like - it was my favorite). I argued with her about not needing one, but she was adament. So, off to the mall we went. I was expecting our typical bra shopping trip to J.C. Penney's, but no... That woman was pulling out all the stops. It was my first trip to Victoria's Secret - a store that I would have loved to get something from but my Mom always said it was too expensive and since my parents were always the ones paying for my clothes, I didn't shop there.
I should have been excited. The pretty, lacy, frilly bras. Padded bras, strapless, straps that could be removed, and the colors! They were soft, silky, beautiful. My Mom got a saleswoman to help us and my Mom picked out the dullest and cheapest strapless bra she could find. Shoulders slumped, I took the bra and the nice saleslady took us to the changing rooms so I could try it on, explaining to me how it should fit and all the things that I really had no clue about.
She unlocked the door, hung the bra up on the hook, and I stepped in. My Mom stepped in behind me.
"You don't have to come in. I can try on a bra by myself," I told my Mom.
"I'm paying for it, and I need to make sure it fits right." My Mom answered gruffly. She was in a mood. She had been all morning.
"I am nineteen years old; I'm fairly sure I can put on a bra all by myself." I was starting to give her back the attitude she was giving me.
"I'm coming in there whether you like it or not," my Mom answered, pushing her way past me and sitting down on the bench seat in the fitting room. I rolled my eyes, walked in, locked the door behind me, and started taking my shirt and bra off so I could properly try on the bra. I was covering myself up out of sheer embarrassment. At that age, you don't necessarily want your parents to see your tits.
I turned around, put my shirt on the hook next to the bra, and started putting on the bra. After it was on, I turned back around. And that was when my mom exploded.
"What is that?" She was seething. My tattoo was on full display.
"A tattoo."
"And why did you get a tattoo?" She asked. Why was she angry? It wasn't her tattoo; it was mine.
"Because I wanted one? Why did you drag me here to get a strapless bra that I don't need?" It wasn't so much a question but an accusation. By that point, I knew exactly what was going on. My Dad had called and told her about my tattoo, and she was mad.
She held her rage until we were in the parking lot of the mall. We bought the bra, and as we walked back to the car I knew what was coming. "Why would you do that to yourself? You didn't have permission to do that. That is ugly..." She was not kind. She made me feel horrible. But it made me love my tattoo even more.
The tattoo wasn't something I did because I wanted to upset her. I simply wanted a tattoo. I wanted an ankh tattoo on my left breast. It was something that I had been thinking about doing for months before I actually went on my excursion with Jen to the tattoo parlor. My Mom took it as an absolute affront to her. It was a way that I had chosen to express myself and, like most of the time, she didn't like my specific choice of self-expression. An epic screaming match ensued the entire way home. When we got home, I locked myself in my room until Kacy came over to take me out on one of our movie dates.
I never understood why my Mom was so mad. Why was it so important that I didn't get a tattoo? Was I less of a person because of it? It was in a place that couldn't be seen unless I specifically chose to show it off (which, weating low cut tank tops that summer, I showed it off plenty). It wasn't affecting her at all. It was mine, on my body. As far as I was concerned, she could suck it.
The strapless bra sat in my drawer, unused for years. I think I maybe wore it once and it was the most uncomfortable thing I've ever worn in my life. To this day I still don't understand her explosive anger about it other than the fact that I know she was a narcissist and it drove her nuts that she ultimately could not control me or my behavior; especially after I moved out of the house.
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