LOOK AT ME!!!!!

Not too long ago, for reasons not worth describing, my family found itself at North DeKalb Mall.  While standing in one of the wide corridors, my daughter suddenly got a shocked look on her face, pointed, and said, "Look at THAT thing!"  I turned and looked, and instantly turned back, getting up in her face (or, I should say, "down in her face" because I'm still about nine inches taller) and telling her never EVER to point at another human being and call him "that thing".   I did, however, fail to mention that "that thing" was a guy who, from the ankles up was dressed like your garden variety guy in his early 20s, probably what you'd call a 'hipster'.  You know.  Frank Sinatra hat, overly sculpted goatee, plaid clothing.  What set him apart was that he was wearing extremely high neon pink heels.

So, here's the question: at what point does the "don't point" and "don't stare" rule become ridiculous?  This particular guy seemed to be strolling up and down the hallway, leading me to believe that he a) lost a bet, b) was an Emory student doing some kind of sociological study to gauge people's reactions, or c) waiting for someone to say something rude because he's always thought it sounded like fun to whip off one's stilletto and lightning quick stab it into someone's eye when they insult you.  Who knows?  This guy, as far as I'm concerned, was so off the social norms that he was practically screaming "LOOK AT ME!  WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME?!?"  This is in contrast to the obviously mentally challenged boy a few tables down from us at lunch that same day who kept crying out incoherent noises.  I am proud to say that my children did not stop, stare, or point at this heartbreaking boy.

So those are extreme examples with semi-obvious answers.  But what about all the stuff in the middle?  As I write this, I am sitting on the balcony of my hotel room in St. Maarten, which is where we went when we dropped our kids off at camp, only I didn't want to say anything then because I didn't want you to burglarize my house while I was gone.  Anyhoo, earlier today, on the beach, was a topless woman.  No one else was topless, and I honestly have no idea what the topless rules for women are on the Dutch side of this island.  However, she was clearly on her own.  I think this gave each of us in the vicinity the right -- just once -- to do a double take and think, "Oooh.  Boobies.  You don't see that outdoors every day."  I think we also have the right to point it out to our spouses.  Another woman looked to me to be in her fifties.  Her hair was completely gray, and her skin showed the effects of a few decades on the planet.  I saw her from the front, first, and despite the fact that gravity had done to her what it had done to the rest of us, she was wearing a bikini that had enough sequins all over the top to decorate a circus performer.  Here in the Carribean sun, in the Windex blue ocean, her top was so sparkly that everyone's eyeballs were like bugs to a light on a summer night.  When she turned around to exit the surf, I saw that the bottom of her bikini was the kind that, ahem, goes through, not around.  Alas, gravity, and perhaps a hail storm, had taken its toll there, but I found myself unable to look away.

Thankfully, I only saw one man wearing - oh, how do I describe it? - a bathing suit that you might find on an Olympic athlete.  Only this guy, if he were an Olympic athlete, it was a long time ago.  No, with the men it wasn't so much the outfits that made me want to look.  It was the tattoos.  I have mentioned time and time before that I love to read.  My love of words is not limited to books or stories or magazines or newspapers.  If there is something in print and it is within the range in which my eyeballs are capable of focusing, I am going to read it.  I can't help it.  Most of the time I'm not even conscious of it.  So when someone has a tattoo that has writing on it, as is increasingly popular, I am going to read it.  My theory is, if you don't want me to read it, don't show it to me.  Only, if some of the words are difficult to read from where I am, because the body part curves, or because it is in some ridiculously fancy font, I really really really have to fight the urge to tap the guy on the shoulder and ask him what it says and why he chose to write that on his body forever and ever amen.  Elaborate picture tattoos catch my eye as well.  I want to know what they are.  They must be very significant, or the person wearing them wouldn't permanently engrave them on their bodies, and they must want me to look at it or it wouldn't be on display. 

Or is it rude to look?  I have no idea.  If someone had a big red birthmark shaped like Elvis Presley on their forearm, and they chose to wear a short sleeved shirt, it would be rude for me to look at the birthmark.  So what's the difference between an Elvis birthmark, and an Elvis tattoo?  The choice.  Birthmark guy didn't take his body and decorate it in a hey look at me way.  Tattoo guy did.  I don't have any tattoos, nor does my husband, but I do have friends who have tattoos, and I've never known any of them to be the least bit offended when someone asked them about why they chose that particular ink.  But still.  Don't point, don't stare.  It's one of those rules your Mom beats into your head, and I have to doubt the wisdom of trying to overcome it.

Or maybe I'm old enough not to care.  Just know this: if there is something bright and shiny or colorful or extremely unusual on your body that you have put there on purpose, I'm gonna look.