Monday, November 24, 2008

Finger Stash

I was downstairs in the deli in the basement of my office building getting coffee last week, when the cashier girl noticed my finger stash. We’re friendly with each other, and we talk just about every morning, so I was slightly surprised she had only just noticed it now.

Having expressed how funny she thought the finger stash was, I told her how even though I immediately told my mom about it after I got it done, for months on end my mom thought it was something I had drawn on with a sharpie each time I saw her.

My little cousin, Sara, is obsessed with it, and she makes me draw a finger stash on her each time we see each other. Her mom even told us she’s taken to drawing them on the kids at school, and the teacher got a picture of them all sitting around the lunch table holding their fingers, inked with marker, directly under their little noses. I’m such a good influence.

I got the finger stash at the second ever RollerCon with Buzz Kill and Cheeta Torpeda. I had been wanting one for a while, but I never went and did it, so when Cheeta told us it was her birthday, we had a real bona fide reason to go get some finger stashes. Buzz got one that curled up on the end, like the ringmaster of a circus, Cheeta got the John Waters’ straight pencil stash, because she works with Waters often and wanted to be able to use it on him next time he was to get huffy with her, and I got a French-looking stash that ever-so-slightly turned up on each end.

“I would have gotten one that curls up into a spiral on each end,” the deli girl told me.

“Well,” I said “That’s what I wanted, but I settled on this one, because it’s less noticeable and can be better hidden in a work situation than one with curly cues.”

It was then that I realized I live my entire life making decisions the exact same way I decided what style mustache to get on my finger.

Daring, yet conservative. I can never let go completely, and in the back of my mind I’m always thinking about what I shouldn’t do, because it may mess up chances of a normal life or office job later down the line – you know, in case I decide that’s what I want.

It really makes me mad that I can’t ever seem to go balls out – I can only ever seem to dislodge one ball, and when I do I’m reluctantly self-conscious about it. I always play it safe. I have fun, but never to the extent that I want to have fun. Something holds me back. Reason? Fears emanating from my strict childhood upbringing?

Sometimes I get sick of safe, but other times I find comfort in it. Safe often makes sense, but sometimes it doesn’t. What I think this all boils down to is my yearning for complete freedom, which I think is okay to want, but I also think complete freedom is something that can only be achieved over a lifetime. As with everything else, I’m impatient with the rate of my own personal growth.

I do know what I want, and it’s not necessarily what, say, my mom would want for me. Nonetheless, I think it’s good that I know what I want (or don’t want), because if I never knew, then I couldn’t take steps to get where I want to go.

I may not have the finger stash I really wanted to get, but I can always go get it touched up and altered. I don’t think I will, though, because now, after thinking about all this, it serves as a reminder to strive for complete freedom – curly cue freedom, not just freedom that’s turned up ever so slightly on the ends.

1 comment:

No Celery Please said...

freedom that’s turned up ever so slightly on the ends...


one of the funniest things I've read all week!