There’s one in every family.
Stamped: March 15th, 2007 | Toggle Similar
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It might come as a shock to some of you, but I am the tattooed freak of my family. I’m pretty much the tattooed freak of my entire circle of friends and acquaintances. Granted, compared to the true tattoo fandom I am but a mere blip on the inked nation radar. But within the parameter of my life I am the designated oddball.
Two weeks ago I added my ninth and largest piece of art work to my person. It took a whopping six hours. The story of how and why is a long one and I’ll save you the details, but I will state that I was in no way shape or form prepared for the hysteria that would follow. An almost instant WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE?! engulfed me and sent me spiraling down in a pseudo B³ (Berserker Britney Breakdown).
As I lay in bed the next day contemplating ways to hack off my good masturbating arm it suddenly dawned on me that despite my being old enough to know better and despite all the lessons I’ve learned over the years of the ramifications of impulsiveness, I am still very much the impetuous nitwit girl I was ten, maybe even fifteen years ago. It’s both shameful and invigorating: shameful because a woman in her thirties really should have more level headedness; and invigorating because there’s a genuine high that stems from being an insouciant fireball. Incidentally, after the initial morning-after shock of the new piece wore off, I grew to love Lola for all that she stands for and for the sheer fact that I had the balls to actually go through with it.
My personality isn’t necessarily one that others would associate with that of tattoo love. I was never into the punk or alternative scenes. Despite my wicked air guitar, I am no rockstar. I never knew anyone with tattoos. In fact, until a random and highly foolish whim prompted by my then outlaw boyfriend to get a tattoo before my shift at the local pool hall I’d never really thought about tattoos. I didn’t dislike them, but I didn’t love them, either. I really hadn’t formed an opinion one way or another. But on that cold winter day during the 20th year of my life I made a decision that would forever change the course of my skin’s life. Without any rhyme or reason I got a simple gecko on my right shoulder blade. The pain was a lot less than I expected it to be and although I had absolutely no justification for the piece I chose, at that moment, getting it sealed the deal on my falling in love with the idea of being tattooed. Much like the young senseless foolette who falls in love with the idea of love and subsequently dates and screws every asshole that gives her one iota of attention I fell hook, line and sinker.
I eventually got that first tattoo covered up with something that held more significance than “what can I get that’ll only take about thirty minutes?” but I still love the idea of being tattooed almost thirteen years later.
From that very first tattoo I knew I wanted more. Unfortunately I spent the bulk of my twenties fearing judgments and so I only got small ones here or there even though I was dying to bust out with something gargantuan. They were all meaningful (still are), but easily concealed. One of the beautiful things about getting older, however, is the newfound self-awareness that perpetuates the journey into not giving a shit about what other people think. It’s a brilliant liberation. And with this sense of freedom, I found myself sitting in the tattoo chair more and more. There is a definite high involved. The humming buzz of the gun, the atmosphere of an awesome shop, hell, even the pain brings forth an adrenaline rush like no other.
I don’t know when I’ll reach a stopping point, although I do know that I do not want to become some Lydia the Tattooed Lady circus freak sideshow act. Beyond that who knows. For now I’ve reached a tattoo hiatus. I know it won’t last long, though, much to the dismay of my family (who have all but disowned me). I am inspired by so much on a regular basis that it's a wonder I haven't already reached Lydia's tattoo stature.
When you boil down to it, there are far worse things in life than being addicted to tattoos (like crack or reality t.v. for starters). And like I told one lady at the supermarket who actually belittled me while in front of the Silk case, "life is too short not to live it colorfully…BITCH!"
Alright. I didn't really add the bitch part, but I should have because that took some fucking nerve. See? If my inner tattooed biker gang persona had taken over I'd have coldcocked her. Both fortunately and unfortunately, as freaky and scary as some small town geriatrics may see me, I'm more of a lover than a fighter. I could have been ugly, but that would've fed in to her stereotype. Instead I politely tried to kill her with kindness.
Karol Griffin, author and tattoo artist, summed up tattoo love simply, yet eloquently. She said that "tattooed people choose to display the most genuine aspects of their souls upon their skin" and while it's not true for every person who goes into a tattoo shop and picks a $60 piece of flash off the wall, it is true for me. Well, since the gecko, anyway.
Last 5 posts by JB
- Happy Anniversary - June 21st, 2007
- decision 2007: dildo fantasies vs. honesty - June 14th, 2007
- Intermission - June 7th, 2007
- Yoni, up close and personal - May 31st, 2007
- My friend Karma - May 24th, 2007
Hi. You are precisely describing the very same frame of mind I find myself in right now. I had my first tatoo done when I was 18, it didn’t mean anything to me, apart from the fact that it was cheap and relatively painless. Over the years, and over the four other tats I’ve had done (meaningfull ones this time, at least to me), I’ve been itching to have a large piece done, but never quite got the guts (and the dough) to do it, mainly for fear of what others (and especially my family) would think of it. But now that I’ve reached my 30s, and though I’ve not quite suceeded at not giving a flying fuck at what others think of my little person - something I’m working on, better late than never - I’m considering finally doing it. Tatoos are indeed like a drug, in that once you reach the point where you want a new one done, there’s nothing can distract you from that thought. I actually find myself dreaming about it at night. I feel I’m ready for it, in a way, it might even help me get control over my body and the image I have of it. I’m not saying it will replace a good ‘ole therapy or diet but it will help me OWN my body, sorta. I know when it’s done I will probably go through a phase of “What the fuck have I done???”, I went through that phase right after my latest tatoo already, as it was the first time I had words done on me, and I find they are much harder to appropriate than a mere drawing. but hell, I really wanna do it. I already foundthe spot, the artist, and the motive. So thanks for the post, I know I’m normal after all. Take care.
that’s a beautiful tattoo- i love large arm pieces, and i hope that one day i’ll be able to get one myself, but for now i’m at the small(ish) and hidden stage in my tattoo timeline.