![]() We weren’t bad exactly more annoying in the same way as the kid who never stops asking “Why?” I don’t know what I expected when I initiated this conversation - maybe a “oh god, you look so different!” Perhaps a “how have you been?” Then again, this is the same woman we (somewhat) affectionately nicknamed “Psycho” for her full-volume flip-outs over typical behaviors of a group of too-smart-for-high-school teenagers. My mom has her own way of dealing with women who stare at me in the grocery store: by making loud commentary in hopes they will feel foolish, if not embarrassed. ![]() Though I took down her number and said I’d pass it along, I suspect my mother never called, especially after I related the exchange to her. Just make sure she texts me before she calls - I don’t answer anything from a number I don’t recognize.” “How’s your mom doing? I would love to reconnect with her. She looked relieved, the conversation now re-routed to her retirement and lack of activities since. “So, where are you teaching now?” I asked. Her eyes widened that was not the response she had expected. “And have lost it in the recession like everyone else my age? No thanks! At least I get to keep these suckers forever.” But this was wholesale rudeness, plain and simple. Now, usually I make allowances for foot-in-mouth moments regarding my body art - especially where children and the elderly are concerned every tattooed person becomes a default ambassador for the rest of us in these moments, regardless of how they react. “I was just thinking you could’ve bought a house with the money you spent on all those tattoos!” “Man, now I feel terrible!” she chuckled, revealing the crooked bottom teeth I remembered. “Diana’s daughter?” Again, I replied in the affirmative just how many Julene’s did this woman know? She gave me a strong side-eye before replying. In the interest of ending the awkward moment, I approached. While I’ve never been known for my poker face, I couldn’t be sure if it was recognition or judgment that played across hers. Though I don’t look like I did in high school, she looked about the same - older around the eyes and grayer in the hair, still dressed in the “these are my clean pants” style common among longtime residents of the Denver metro area and thin in a way that is definitively genetic instead of cultivated.Īs a tattooed woman who has aged more like wine than milk, it’s not uncommon for my intuition to tingle when someone is staring at me. She was shorter than I remembered, though we must have been the same height during the time I was expected to address her formally, using both a title and last name. She was perusing bagged salad options and I, the assortment of apples. I was in the produce department of my local grocery store when I spotted my high school computer teacher. Photo: Visibly tattooed woman hides her face with her hands
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