Sep 152017
 

Back in my CPOS days, I often went by the name “Grey.” I wanted to believe – I told myself – my behavior existed in a grey zone, between black and white. Yes, I was betraying my wife. Yes, I was lying, cheating, and stealing. But I told myself I did these things to make myself a better man, a better husband. (And for the record, I stopped going by “Grey” in 2009, long before E.L. James and the piece of crap she wrote.)

Sure, in retrospect, I was insane. And. But….

Grey” is a pretty fundamental concept to me. The most interesting parts of my life, thought, and experience exist between “black” and “white.” When I realized this – and not just conceptually, but viscerally, in my bones – whole worlds opened up to me. Nothing ever is “black” or “white.”

In my CPOS years, “Grey” was a mask I wore. In the years since, “grey” has been the recipe for my salvation.

I’m old enough that tattoos aren’t so common among my peers. For nearly a decade, though, I’ve contemplated a simple, understated tattoo of the word “Grey.” Probably in stencil, somewhere unobtrusive. Though I have no tattoos (yet), I have a tattoo policy: I will not get my (first?) tattoo until one year after I decide to get one, including design and placement.

Today, I the one-year clock starts. I will have this:

tattooed on my left thigh, high enough never to be seen unless I’m nude (or wearing a ridiculous European bathing suit).

Say something! (I just did....)