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Comment: Sorry, ramicio. I often

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Sorry, ramicio. I often

Sorry, ramicio. I often forget to note who is posting what. I assumed you were the OP providing more information about your predicament. Sounds like you're exactly where you want to be in regards to a relationship.

Just to clear up the meaning of the word power: It means the ability to effectively accomplish things. It is not uncommon, when confronted with difficult tasks, for people to use little things -- the perfect pair of boots when you're giving a big speech; a water bottle scrawled with motivational quotes from your running mentor for a first marathon. These things are messages people send their future selves, for when the hard task gets even harder and your confidence goes slack.

I understand that looks don't mean much to you -- except makeup and tattoos -- but looks can make significant differences in power, in how effective you'll be at a given task. For example, I pass out books to people at our local food bank once a week. I choose my clothes in a way that I think best helps me accomplish my task. I need to be approachable; I need to get down on the floor and read to kids. I dress accordingly. I dress to optimize my power -- my effectiveness -- for this task of getting great books into the hands of struggling folks. One of my best friends works for an organization that goes out on the streets of a big city and tries to befriend prostitutes. She's found that if she wears bright lipstick, the prostitutes she talks to are more accepting. She's using more and brighter makeup to gain more power, more effectiveness, in accomplishing her task of making sure these prostitutes have at least one person they can turn to should they decide to change professions.

Tattooing goes way back before Barnum and Bailey. People have been adorning and marking themselves since...well since the beginning. I had a neighbor who had the ugliest tattoo I'd ever seen covering her calf. After a few across-the-property-line conversations, I asked her about it. I remember how she stroked it and her eyes got moist and she seemed to forget I was there. I felt odd, like I was intruding. Then she blinked and looked back to me and told me how she'd lost her first child at four. In the deepest of her grief, she taken one of her daughter's drawings to a tattoo artist and had it put on her calf. It was ten years later, when I met her, and she'd had two healthy boys since, and she was happy again. I don't know what you're supposed to do or what's considered vain by some. But when she touched her tattoo, I saw her compassion and her sorrow. I never looked at her tattoo as ugly again.