Tattoo You

Saw a woman at Giant today with one of those tattoo sleeves. As always, the first thing that popped into my mind was, "WHY?!?!?" I mean, would you want to wear the same shirt day in and day out for the rest of your life? I sure wouldn't and I think most people would agree. That's basically what you are doing when you permanently decorate your body though. I just don't get it.

I have a tattoo. It's on the back of my hip/upper ass-ish region. I put it there deliberately, wanting it someplace out of sight and somewhere that wouldn't stretch with pregnancies. (I was always thinking ahead to the baby days, long before I had a potential baby daddy at my side unlike a friend whose cute little heart tattoo near her belly button looked more like an illustration of an actual human heart from an anatomy textbook after her daughter was born.) Because of its location, I've never actually seen it. I hear it's pretty.

People are always surprised to hear that I'm tatted. I never would have said it was my thing either but then Jon died. I felt the need to do something extreme. (That didn't involve a firey crash or too many pills.) Something permanent. (It is.) Something painful that would hurt my body in a way that rivaled the way my heart ached. (It didn't come close.) When I heard that his friends were getting tattoes, that was my answer. How could I not do what they were doing? God forbid someone appear to love him more than me!

So off I went, fears of Hepatitis C be damned. Pants down and listening to the tool that sounded JUST LIKE a dentist's drill (my biggest fear), I got inked. The dude doing the work thought my tears were a result of his needle. It was easier to let him think that he was hurting me than to explain how I couldn't feel anything he was doing because the blazing grief left the rest of me numb. 20 minutes and $75 later, I walked out with a bandage on my bum, covering a tiny butterfly landing on a flower with "JON" below it.

I had no idea what a tattoo costs. I had $35 in my pocket and almost had a heart attack. Had to borrow the money from the friend who went with me. My grand tribute to my first and best friend and I couldn't even cover the cost. Classy, that's me. I wanted to stop at an ATM afterwards but she wouldn't hear of it. She loved Jon, too. Truly classy, that's Deb.

Very few people saw my tat early on. My mother cried and hugged me. I could have had it done on my forehead and that would have been a-okay with her because it was for Jon. My father snorted, told me I was an ass and headed for the bathroom but not before I saw the tears in his eyes. My boyfriend at the time happily rubbed Vaseline on it to aid in healing and color maintenance. Once I started having kids, lots of medical professionals saw it (and oh-so-much more, yikes.) Did they wonder who "JON" was when they found out that my husband's name was Tom? Probably. Again, easier to let them think whatever they wanted if they actually took the time to give a shit.

I forget it's there for long periods of time, uninclined to stare at my ass as I am. Natalie reminds me when we shower together. She loves it and wants one herself. Please God, never let her have a reason to get one like mine.

People say tattoos are addictive. I haven't found that to be true. I love Tom with every fiber of my being but seriously, people, I put his last name on my drivers license. Putting his first name on my ass seems redundant. No amount of ink could lengthen our commitment because it's already "to infinity and beyond!" in the sage words of Buzz Lightyear. I spend my days covered in baby spit and jelly-tinged kisses, the very best kind of temporary tattoos. Any other kid-related tattoo would be superfluous.

My maiden name, that's the only possibility I would consider. Silly, but after all these years I still miss McGowan like a long-lost friend. I've been known to accidentally sign it when I'm especially tired or distracted. I have a whole theory about why it's total bullshit that a married couple uses the man's name rather than the woman's but that's a topic for another time. McGowan is now legally my middle name (Marie always made me think of old ladies with blue hair and cigarette-raspy voices anyway.) That will have to be good enough since it would probably hurt my very traditional husband if I felt the need to emblazon myself with my "real" name. Plain old black ink is way too Rikers Island for me anyway. I'm ghetto fabulous, not convict chic.

Anyway, waaaaay long digression there but yeah, I have a tat and I still don't understand the crazy in-your-face ones. What will they look like down the road when women's arms get all crepey? Will you really be a Tinkerbell fan when you are 75? Doubt it, sister. Seriously doubt it.