Inked

I always wanted a tattoo. I think there's something sexy about them. When I see someone with a tattoo I wish to be like that: to be that bold. Do something that permanent. I want to be the kind of person who doesn't care what other people think about me, or about my choices. I thought I could be that kind of person. So, I got a tattoo. And as soon as the last drip of ink was in place, I realized I'm not that kind of person!

This wasn't a drunken, blurred decision. I had put months of thought into what I wanted and where I wanted it. I knew I wanted it to be my kids' initials, something that would mean something to me forever. And I figured if I'm going to get a tattoo, why put it someplace hidden like my back or my navel? My sister had mentioned my wrist and, at the time, that seemed like the perfect place: delicate and visible, like a bracelet. So, last October, while visiting my sister in New York City, we went to a tattoo parlor and suddenly I was going through with it!

It didn't hurt nearly as badly as I was expecting and all while he was working on it I kept thinking this is so cool! I can't believe I'm doing this! I had this feeling of exhilaration, like I was free and finally doing something for me, just for me. And when he was done, and it was all shiny and new, I took my first look at it and froze. What had a I done?

Unfortunately, I spent the rest of that visit with my sister lost in my own head. I was paralyzed with fear that I had made a drastic (and very permanent) mistake. Molly kept assuring me that it was beautiful, and that I just needed to give myself some time to get used to it. Walking through the airport for my flight home I challenged myself by pulling up the sleeve of my sweater. I was sure everyone was looking at me, at it...and judging.

For a while, through the winter, I was better. With sweaters and coats whole days would go by where I never saw it. But then, at night, there it was. Nights were hard. I could see it and then just lie there, thinking, worrying, what-if-ing. And now, with spring here and summer right around the corner, the idea of short sleeves all day, every day sends me into a full panic.

Every once in a while I see someone noticing it. Until recently, though, no one, no stranger, had every said anything about it. And friends have only ever given me positive feedback. But, they are my friends and are supposed to say nice things, to try to make me feel better. I was sure that everyone was walking around thinking about it. About what I mistake I had made. Wondering how, at my age, I could have done such a stupid thing. But the other day a random person asked about it. She asked to get a closer look and then said, in a off-handed way as if the world didn't depend upon it, "That's really pretty." It caught me off guard. Is that what people really think? Is it that simple?

I'm not writing this hoping for a rush of comments trying to convince me how great my tattoo is. I'm getting there on my own, slowly. And really, for me, that's what this whole tattoo thing was about, right? Not worrying about what other people think. That being said, I think I'll get the next one on my back. (Just kidding, Mom!)