To Tattoo or Not To

Hubby had the tires rotated today, and as we sat and waited we observed people of all ages with tatoos. Which brings me to this recently rejected essay that I will share with you. If you enjoy it, will you tell someone else? Direct them to my blog http://lindaoconnell.blogspot.com/

I am trying to hit 150 followers. Thanks everyone. Well, not HIT them.

Marked for Life

Everyone agrees that laughter is good for what ails you. Like most people I like a good comedy; I enjoy a funny joke, but when the joke’s on me, or my body, it’s no laughing matter. I am not one to judge others. I’m a writer and an artist and I believe in self-expression, but I prefer sketches and paintings on canvas or graffitied on the sides of buildings, not on biceps, legs and necks and certainly not shining from the back of a teen-aged girl’s low-cut waistband. Ouch!

In the 1950’s it used to be guys with “Rosie” tattooed on their chest. Old Navy guys, who in their youth, spent shore leave getting anchors and girlfriends’ names etched onto their forearms later buried them like old memories under long-sleeved shirts and hid them from wives with different names.

Nowadays you see young people, girls and guys, whose bodies look like walking bulletin boards. I am not a prude; I don’t object to what other people do to their bodies or how they flaunt their tattoos. Some display brilliantly hued ‘sleeves’ from shoulder to wrist. It is not uncommon to observe respectable looking men and women standing in check out lines with numerals and letters etched on their forearms and necks.

Personally, I prefer a plastic name badge to announce my affiliations. Nobody’s inking my neck!

When my children were small, I adamantly disapproved of rub-on tattoos. When they
came home from birthday parties, I rifled through their goody bags. Sure, I snatched a piece of candy or two, but my quest was for those fake tattoos that some dumb mom thought was a cute and harmless party favor. If the kids rubbed them on their bodies, I scrubbed them off. I considered transfer tattoos precursors to permanent branding. I vowed not be a party to the defacing of my kids’ bodies. They did enough of that on their own – my son was a billboard of scrapes, scabs and scars and my daughter sported too-orange blush, clashing pink lipstick and hideous fashions.
Kids are fickle at fifteen; if they had imprinted the names of their latest sweethearts on their bodies, there would have been weekly scratch outs and replacement names up and down their arms. I couldn’t prevent their weekly heartbreak, but I was able to prevent their future pain of tattoo removable. I simply said NO to permanent tattoos as they got older.

Times have changed. Nowadays, I cringe when I see my grandchildren sporting a temporary Spidey on their forearm. What can I say when they shove some super hero under my nose and ask me what I think? If I told them, I’d never get grandma visitation, so I direct their attention to my own "tattoo". Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a willing participant; in fact I was so mad at my new husband when I discovered the half dollar sized, indigo blue heart shape on my lower left leg, I screamed. “Bill, what have you done to me!”

“Married you on Valentine’s Day and made you my wife.” The big joker laughed. His playful nature and sense of humor drew me to him. I liked my funny honey, but I did not appreciate being drawn ON.

“You know how I feel about tattoos.” I grimaced. He watched me spit and rub; he observed as I scoured and scrubbed. But the image remained.

“What did you do, use permanent ink when you drew this?”

“Honey, I didn’t do it. Let me see your leg.”

I raised my leg and shoved my foot into his gut and said, “Look at what you did! I can’t get it off.”

“Now calm down. I didn’t draw on you. Take a closer look and tell me what you really
think.”

“I think I love you, but I’m forty years old, and I don’t want a teeny bopper tattoo to prove it.”

I looked closely at my shin and gasped as the realization sunk in that no amount of cleanser or intense scrubbing – nothing, could remove it, short of a visit to the dermatologist. One of my spider veins had broken into a clearly defined, perfect heart shape. I was marked for life.

Nowadays when my grandchildren show me their tattoos, I hike my pant leg and take each child aside individually and say, “See Nana’s tattoo? I got this one to show the world how much I love YOU, but shhh!, don’t tell the other kids.”

When your body plays tricks on you, you might as well laugh and play along.

No tats yet for the clan, at least not where I can see them :)