The Tatt2ed Lady

I said the experience of getting a tattoo was another story in itself. First of all, I arrived at an immaculate tattoo "place" because I am really too old to think of myself in a tattoo parlor. There were several women customers, but no men other than the two who worked there. They turned out to be Christian tattoo artists, something I didn't even know existed, and every visible space on their bodies was covered with ink.

Honestly, on a stack of Bibles, I was the only woman there who wasn't getting a man's name covered up. I made an immediate mental note not to put my husband's name on my body unless it was with a washable marker. He would understand.

I was also the oldest woman there, certainly the only one paying for her tattoo with her retirement income. That was comforting, as if I had considered carefully for half a century that the pros outweighed the cons and decided this would somehow actually make the world a better place.

Although I knew I wanted a tatto of a dogwood blossom, Gentleman #1 graciously showed me several albums of photos of their work. They had page after page of every image, word and phrase under the sun. I didn't really expect to see where they had put them on both male and female body parts, but it turned out to be a complete lesson in anatomy.

In fact, I've never seen so many images of Jesus, not even in the church where I grew up. Jesus with crosses, Jesus on crosses, Jesus with eagles, Jesus with roses, Jesus with swastikas, Jesus with American flags, Jesus with Confederate flags. I was surprised to turn a page to find a photo of a man's bare buttocks sporting a drawing of a buxom nude woman with a picture of Jesus' face on the opposite page. I couldn't help but wonder about Jesus' reaction when they inserted his picture in the acrylic page protector and closed the book for the first time. Was it heaven or a new period of temptation in the wilderness?

My turn came quickly enough and I met Gentleman #2 who would actually do my tattoo. Indeed, they were both gentlemen and I had a wonderful time talking and laughing with the two of them as the needle hummed against my leg. It wasn't painful and I was grateful that I had chosen my calf to be so adorned. My criteria were simple - it had to be in a place where I could see it, it had to be in a place with no cellulite, and it had to be in place where I could easily cover it if I was afraid to show it to my mother. That didn't leave me with many options.

As my tattoo was being completed, another young woman came into the front room. I caught snippets of her story about her family still treating her like a child and heard the words "independence" and "konji" a time or two. It all came together when Gentleman #1 declared loudly in a thick Southern drawl, "But, darling, your family can't read 'independence' if it's in Japanese!" Another mental note to myself - no text at all and no foreign languages.

I drove home $50 poorer but wiser for the experience. My husband laughed, my children were surprised that I actually went through with it, and our closest friends came by to marvel at my tattoo that night. I haven't regretted it and don't think I ever will. And, unlike tortilla chips, one is enough.