And then I jumped off a cliff. I always wondered if I'd have the nerve to do it. And I did! I got a tattoo.
Yes, I know the "stigma" behind them. I know that most people believe that folks who have tattoos - especially women - are trashy, cheap and dirty. Never mind that it's no longer just the chosen art of biker babes but of people of all walks of life. The stigma remains and I'm aware of it.
But I'm glad I did it. I've always wondered if I would have the nerve. I'm not really a masochist. Pain is generally something I flee from. It hurts, you know.
I didn't think it would hurt that bad. To put it the way the tattoo artist put it when we made the appointment, "It's only a little sting and it lasts just a few minutes."
Uh huh.
It wasn't really hard choosing what I wanted. I didn't want anything too obvious. After all, part of the idea of a permanent mark on your body is having people ask about it. I looked for something that had hidden meaning...something that looks and means two different things. Something that would speak of my life up to this point and that, when I explained it, would glorify God.
Where to put it was a little harder to decide. The one thing about tattoos that is true is when you're 80, you want it to look like it did when your skin wasn't over sized and droopy. I learned that there isn't really a place on the body that isn't "tattooable" - a thought that still makes me shiver today. I also learned there isn't really one place that you can place it that it won't hurt some.
I finally settled on my wrist. Although one of the most tender spots, it's one that is not likely to have droopy skin. And yes, I looked at many older adults' wrists to make sure.
So...design settled, location settled, all that was left was getting up the nerve.
And I was good. Really I was. There were four of us getting them all at the same time. I was scheduled to go last...not because I wanted to put it off...because I didn't really care. I wasn't anxious or worried, scared or nervous. Having made up my mind...I was good.
And then it was my turn. The tattoo artist was getting set up, something I watched him do three times already. Everything was sterile and clean, well lit and comfortable. No one who was receiving or had received a tattoo with me there screamed in pain. Folks from all walks of life and social status were in and out - the tattoo process is really very quick. I was good.
And then I sat down, placed my arm in front of the artist and declared myself ready. It was at this moment that he explained that because of the location I'd chosen and the design, he was having to use a very small needle that would hurt more. He smiled and said, "Ready?" Before I could reply he started and WHAM!
When you're getting a tattoo, you have to be careful to be still. They don't strap you down (I'm not sure why not) and if you jerk or pull away, your design will include a nice line from the point at which the artist started and the point at which he realizes you moved. Not good. All my focus was on keeping still. That and getting through the pain.
And it really does hurt - have I mentioned that? Before going, I'd heard everything from it's a "slight nuisance" to "there's not enough pain medication in the world" to describe how it feels.
Do this...take a paperclip and straighten it out. Then, sterilize it with an open flame and some alcohol. Choose the most tender spot on your body you can think of, stick the paperclip into your skin about half-way down the clip and then drag it into the shape of whatever your heart desires. Oh, and in case you've never seen a tattoo being done...to get color added, you take several needles together, line them in in a line and literally color like you're using a crayon.
Yes, ouch.
I'm happy I did it. I'm happy it's done. And I'll be glad to explain to you what it means if you want.
Just don't ask me to do it again!
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