Meg in Transit

Actually, three.

I recently got… acquired?… how does one say that they now have three tattoos? Well, I do. This may come as a surprise to you, especially if you know me well. When I was little, I was so terribly afraid of needles that during one flu shot incident, my parents had to chase me around the room and basically hold me down so that I could finally get the shot. I promise this moment didn’t traumatize me for life, although I recognize that I am still talking about it today.

In childhood, my mother begged my sister and me to promise to never, ever, get tattoos. We swore to protect our “untainted skin.” Her words, not ours. When I told her about my plan a few months ago, she exclaimed, “How could you?! I thought I had gotten you past this stage!”

… absolutely no idea where my flair for the dramatic comes from.

My mom used to say that from an early age, she knew that when I made a decision that it would be the right decision for me, because I had a strong moral and personal compass, and an unwavering trust in my instincts. Looking back, I know now that I spent a lot of time in my head; observing, considering, and deliberating.

This decisive, determined way of making choices continued through my teenage years, but, at some point, in the early days of adulthood, I began to stop trusting, or rather, listening to this part of myself as I navigated personal and professional decisions, particularly when those lines were blurred and the “right decision” became less clear. Saving the details of that part of ~my story~ for another day, in recent months, I have been working on trusting and listening to myself again. So, when I decided to go through with this whole tattoo thing, I was 99% sure I was doing the right thing.

As a self-diagnosed ~person who daydreams and lives in her own head~, I have also been working on showing the world outside of this interior space the pieces of myself that are more vulnerable and emotional, which had been previously hidden away. Trying to wear my heart on my sleeve a little more often. Or, well, on my foot.

I thought about the meaning behind these tiny tattoos for a long time, and continue to do so. I’d like to share these discoveries with you.

1. A Heart

I have a tattoo of a heart on my foot. I know the term “basic” is not really used anymore (like, am I basic for even including it here??) but this does feel like a rather basic tattoo, or whatever the hip new term is. But okay, hear me out.

I decided to get this particular tattoo only moments before walking into my appointment. It is also the one that I have been considering for the longest time. I always thought that if I got a tattoo, I would do something inspired by important people in my life, a classic tattoo move, right? Something dedicated to the people who left too soon, but left a lasting impact. My sister, my friends, my grandmother. Maybe the first and middle initials coincidentally shared by my sister and my friend, E and K. Another, longer, story for another time.

The tattoo for my grandmother was the easiest to consider, because after she passed away suddenly, her sisters, daughter, nieces and other grandchildren, excluding my sister and myself, all got a pink heart with blue angel wings. I always thought that if I did get a tattoo, that this would be the obvious choice. I thought about my version of the tattoo, just the outline of the heart, for years.

The day before my appointment, I kept thinking about that little heart and chose to trust my instinct. I think this is as overly sentimental as this post will get, so hang on. I decided to get the heart on my foot, partly because while I wanted to be able to see it, and have others see it, I knew I could also hide it easily, and I did just decide to get three whole (very small) tattoos in one day. More importantly, it also reminds me that my grandmother and the others who have gone, still walk with me each day, just as they remain on my mind and in my heart.

2. A Bobby Pin

Ballet buns to pin curls.

One of my best friends suggested the bobby pin when I began seriously discussing minimalist tattoo ideas. Initially, I loved the idea because one of my various theatrical jobs was hair design and wig styling. A theatre tattoo without being an obvious theatre tattoo. As I considered it over the past year or so, I realized the bobby pin symbolized even more than that. I started out as a “bunhead,” a barely four year old who shyly, and then, more enthusiastically took to the ballet barre. I continued dancing throughout and after my transition to “theatre kid,” which began at age six. Over the years, bobby pins have supported buns, held back awkward bangs, created mock 20’s bobs and elaborate updos, and secured many a pin curl under a wig. On any day, I could find, and then misplace, and then, once again, find, rogue bobby pins in my dance bag/ rehearsal bag/ gym bag/ the general space around me… Right now, I can think of three separate places in the room where I am typing this which each house a variety of these pins.

Somewhere in my teen years, I stepped away from formal dance instruction. I knew I could do the ~musical theatre dance thing~ but the dance world, as the story often goes, broke me down, and I had trouble building that confidence once more. When I tentatively stepped back into my ballet shoes for my 8:00 am college classes, my trusty bobby pins were there to secure that bun once more, just as they were in those early, equally tentative, four year old dance days.

Also in college, in order to earn our required production hours, I found my way to the costume shop. I loved spending time in the hair and wig corner of the shop, with supportive and brilliant mentors, where I was taught how to style a wig, then trusted to execute real hair designs, before eventually designing for a few main stage shows. These skills were put to work postgrad when I sat on the edge of the stage with my box of bobby pins styling hair for my middle school students before their opening night, or pinning myself into a princess wig for a birthday party, and then, eventually, when I worked on one of my favorite jobs, maintaining and styling the wigs for a professional theatre company.

When I sent my childhood best friend the picture of my tattoo, she said, “Is that an ode to your wigs?” In fact, it is. To my wigs, to the aspiring young performer turned professional, and to the tiny, reluctant dancer with her hair pinned up in a bun.

3. An Umbrella

The umbrella snuck up on me.

Today, I think the word ~umbrella~ and a flurry of memories runs through my mind like an old time-y film reel. A series of chronological moments which happen to have an umbrella – well, many umbrellas – in common. The realization that this particular object symbolized so many important and formative moments happened slowly, then hit me all at once. Of course, an umbrella. I could likely fill an entire book with just my umbrella chronicles. This is a start.

My Sister

My sister and I love Gilmore Girls. I’ve always been a bit Lorelai and she’s always been a lot Rory. It’s the comfort television show that we put on for company, while cooking, or when we simply don’t want to watch anything else. I will admit that not all of the show has aged well and nostalgia certainly comes into play here, and – this is another subject I could discuss for pages and pages. But this is about the umbrella. One of the most ~iconic~ scenes involves Rory jumping off of some very tall scaffolding with only an umbrella (and a safety cable) to carry her to the ground. The characters proudly shout, “in omnia paratus!” meaning “ready for anything,” and Rory tells her soon to be boyfriend, “You jump, I jump, Jack.” I am working on emulating this mentality a little more lately. I can look down at my arm and think, “I am ready for all things.”

Another sister-related umbrella memory involves Mary Poppins. There was a period of time in our early days when alllll she wanted to watch was “Mary Popp-oo” and watch it, on repeat, she did. Of course, I loved it because my sister loved it. Over the years, I have seen and worked on many productions of the musical adaptation. I think I will always find tears in my eyes when I hear “Let’s Go Fly a Kite” or see Mary fly over the rooftops with her umbrella.

In many ways, my younger sister and I do not fall into the expected older vs younger sibling roles. That being said, when asked, “Do you want to take an umbrella?” or “Are you bringing your umbrella?” or any sort of similar question, my sister will respond with, “I don’t need it, I’ll just share yours,” in that typical younger sister way. You can hear it, right? She just assumes that she can share my umbrella and that I will hold it for her, and that is just how it is. There is no, “Can I share yours?” Nope. Just the continued expectation that I will always share my umbrella with her under any and all circumstances. During the summer storm in New Orleans. Through the chilly winter mist in Paris. Walking down the street of our hometown. And, she’s right. I will link my arm with hers and share my umbrella. Always.

Little Women

One of my all time favorite novels is Little Women. I had all of the books in the Little Women series on my bookshelf and poured over these and any other LW inspired book I could find. I had a Little Women needlepoint kit. I watched the movie over and over. By now I’m preeetttyy sure you understand how close I am to my sister. We grew up with another pair of sisters, and together we unintentionally formed our own versions of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. We spent countless hours preparing plays, which we’d perform for our families on Christmas Eve, or just, on a Tuesday. When the cast recording of the musical came out, I played it constantly, memorizing every song and note. Then, in college, I was cast as Jo. This was a pivotal moment for me, after the years I spent unintentionally and intentionally preparing for the role and during a time when I was questioning my place in the theatre world and whether I continued to belong in it. It was meant to be. I started and ended the show – with an umbrella.

One of my memories from that production includes my scene partner and close friend, consistently mocking me because I struggled to close the prop umbrella that we used in the show. I was directed to pick up the umbrella and use it as a sword, eventually opening it; it was ~comedy~. You would think with all of my previous umbrella experience, this would be a breeze. This particular challenge earned me the Brown Bag Award (aka superlative-esque awards given at the end of the year by/to theatre majors, written on brown paper bags) “For learning how to close an umbrella before the age of 21.” Thanks, Andy.

“love could be like a small umbrella in the rain”

Summer Rain & Lucky Umbrellas

Somehow I thought I could spend time in the UK without bringing an umbrella. I do not typically like a rain jacket. For some reason, when I was packing, I decided my new travel self would get by with only a rain jacket and no umbrella. I know, reader. You’re like, “you just spent so long talking about your consistent use of umbrellas, and yet, you thought you wouldn’t want one in the rainiest place on Earth?” (This fact has not been verified.)

I made it one month abroad before I broke down and bought a tiny black umbrella for £10.00 on a particularly blustery day in Bath. This would be the first of three umbrellas that found their way to me over the summer. My trusty black umbrella accompanied me through England. At one point, it was left behind, then returned to me in an almost rom-com style, meet cute sort of way. Stepping onto an elevator, newly returned umbrella in hand, I smiled at the older gentleman who had already boarded. In my memory, this man is Lindsay Lohan’s grandfather in The Parent Trap. Unsolicited, I told him, “He returned my umbrella.” The man smiled back and said, “You’ll need it in this weather.” In my head, there was a twinkle in his eye and a look of understanding with a hint of nostalgia. “Ah, young love.” I am sure that this umbrella still carries a little bit of magic.

I retired my magic umbrella, tucking it safely away in my luggage, when I arrived in Scotland a few weeks later. Like the weather, feelings can change quite quickly. The rain directly reflected my feelings at that point, pouring consistently and blustery once more. I wrote to my sister, “I think I need to buy a new umbrella.” This time, an Edinburgh umbrella, with a pattern that closely resembled my partially Scottish family’s tartan. This umbrella, and the advice of my sister, guided me to a cozy bookshop, where I was offered tea and a window seat, and slowly began to move forward.

Both umbrellas accompanied me to Paris. My friend flew over to meet me for this portion of my travels and we had the best time. I cannot wait to write more about it in a different post. One day, though my weather app did not indicate anything other than sunshine, we found ourselves caught in a downpour right outside of the Palais Garnier, think The Phantom of the Opera. We ran into a restaurant across the street, and seemingly charmed the young waiter who was serving us. We waited as long as we possibly could, but the rain was still coming down in sheets. I was kicking myself for not bringing one of the TWO umbrellas I had now acquired over the past month and a half. We asked our waiter if the restaurant happened to have an umbrella, or “un parapluie,” which not-so-coincidently is one of my favorite words to say in French. I said, of course, we would pay for it or bring it back. He said, “Uhhh, un moment, peut être…” (“maybe…” one of my other favorite things to say in French) and we assumed that he thought we were silly Americans and would soon return empty-handed. We watched him open a few cabinets near the bar and have a serious-looking conversation with the manager. Moments later, he presented us with a classic, long, black umbrella with a curved handle, and told us that it had been left behind long ago, and, of course, we did not have to pay for it, it was ours. Another magic umbrella. Sadly, this beautiful umbrella would not fit in my luggage, so we left it behind in our tiny, tiny flat, to be discovered by the next person who might need a little umbrella magic of their own.

In conclusion…

My sister, her partner, and his sister went with me to my appointment. It was perfect that they were there with me the whole time and will forever be associated with this memory. I’m relieved to say that I am 100% certain that I made the right decision. At least for now. I may be writing about this again in five, or ten years, pondering this decision as much as I do the many decisions I’ve made so far, up through today. At this moment, I am happy to have these tiny images as reminders, and opportunities for conversation and “getting to know you’s.” Thank you for getting to know me.

Some day, soon, I will return to my original blog. This is not a mom/tattoo kind of promise situation. I am grateful, dear reader, that you have made it this far.

Till we meet again.