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.
Showing posts with label tattoo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tattoo. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Tattooed Lady
For years I've been ashamed, embarrassed, frustrated and angry about my inability to control my weight. I was aware of how cynical I had become about myself as I'd gotten older and I was exhausted from the effort it took to fuel those negative emotions. Like most obese people, my body image was so poor that I couldn't even think about having my picture made. I was always the one holding the camera.
Fortunately, three years ago I was referred to a wonderful endocrinologist who walked me through my medical history following thyroid cancer at age 21 and explained why I had reached this point. Finally I understood how the medical treatment I'd had for thirty years and my own choices had gotten me here.
I was instantly confronted with an entirely new image of my body. It wasn't my adversary, condemning me to declining health and increasing pain. Suddenly, it was the guardian that had shielded me from even more weight, more illness, and, thankfully, more cancer. It was the body I had been blessed with, not the body I had been condemned to. And, in that revelation, I came to a place where I could begin to accept "it" as me.
I decided to put an end to the war I'd had with myself and be grateful. For years I had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo - I have no idea why. But, when the dogwoods bloomed last spring at the same time that new appreciation blossomed in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do.One of the nurses in my doctor's office had tattoos, so I asked her where she had gotten them. (I wasn't about to just go anywhere; the laws allowing tattoo artists in South Carolina were brand new and I wanted a medical "referral" for my body art.)
I emailed my closest friends and family to warn them of what I was about to do. OK, the truth is, I was breaking the news to my 79 year old mother. I knew what her reaction would be and I knew she was entitled to it. I remembered my reaction to our oldest son's tattoo at age 19. I'm certainly not proud of the way that I handled that, but at least HE acted like an adult.
My birthday is in April and dogwoods are always in bloom. Those of us lucky enough to be born in April are blessed to have nature celebrate our birthdays. Dogwoods in bloom are one of my favorite things, maybe my very favorite. I collected photos and drawings of dogwoods, anything I could find to create the art that I would wear the rest of my life. And, I was careful to select images of native Southern Appalachian white flowering dogwoods. No pink hybrids for me. I wanted to embrace the certainty that nature knows best, with dogwoods and with human beings.
The story of getting the tattoo can be told another day, but the experience alone was worth it. I've always believed you should try most things in life at least once and that day was just reaffirming enough.
My dogwood tattoo is just over 2 inches by 2 inches, in full color, on my right calf. I wanted where I could see it and be reminded to be thankful. Sometimes I forget it's there and am pleasantly surprised when I rediscover it. It feels like I've always had it and I've never worried about hiding it. I've tried to rediscover myself in the last year and open myself up to the opportunities around me.
Sometimes I think about adding a few more small images around my dogwood - a dragonfly to represent my husband, a Monarch butterfly for my migratory oldest son, a feisty hummingbird for my youngest. But I'm not going to do it. They don't need me to select their images for them. They'll do just fine choosing their own.
Fortunately, three years ago I was referred to a wonderful endocrinologist who walked me through my medical history following thyroid cancer at age 21 and explained why I had reached this point. Finally I understood how the medical treatment I'd had for thirty years and my own choices had gotten me here.
I was instantly confronted with an entirely new image of my body. It wasn't my adversary, condemning me to declining health and increasing pain. Suddenly, it was the guardian that had shielded me from even more weight, more illness, and, thankfully, more cancer. It was the body I had been blessed with, not the body I had been condemned to. And, in that revelation, I came to a place where I could begin to accept "it" as me.
I decided to put an end to the war I'd had with myself and be grateful. For years I had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo - I have no idea why. But, when the dogwoods bloomed last spring at the same time that new appreciation blossomed in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do.One of the nurses in my doctor's office had tattoos, so I asked her where she had gotten them. (I wasn't about to just go anywhere; the laws allowing tattoo artists in South Carolina were brand new and I wanted a medical "referral" for my body art.)
I emailed my closest friends and family to warn them of what I was about to do. OK, the truth is, I was breaking the news to my 79 year old mother. I knew what her reaction would be and I knew she was entitled to it. I remembered my reaction to our oldest son's tattoo at age 19. I'm certainly not proud of the way that I handled that, but at least HE acted like an adult.
My birthday is in April and dogwoods are always in bloom. Those of us lucky enough to be born in April are blessed to have nature celebrate our birthdays. Dogwoods in bloom are one of my favorite things, maybe my very favorite. I collected photos and drawings of dogwoods, anything I could find to create the art that I would wear the rest of my life. And, I was careful to select images of native Southern Appalachian white flowering dogwoods. No pink hybrids for me. I wanted to embrace the certainty that nature knows best, with dogwoods and with human beings.
The story of getting the tattoo can be told another day, but the experience alone was worth it. I've always believed you should try most things in life at least once and that day was just reaffirming enough.
My dogwood tattoo is just over 2 inches by 2 inches, in full color, on my right calf. I wanted where I could see it and be reminded to be thankful. Sometimes I forget it's there and am pleasantly surprised when I rediscover it. It feels like I've always had it and I've never worried about hiding it. I've tried to rediscover myself in the last year and open myself up to the opportunities around me.
Sometimes I think about adding a few more small images around my dogwood - a dragonfly to represent my husband, a Monarch butterfly for my migratory oldest son, a feisty hummingbird for my youngest. But I'm not going to do it. They don't need me to select their images for them. They'll do just fine choosing their own.
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