Inked

07.06.06

            Ink. 

            Just the word gives me a shiver.

            I love it when it flows perfectly from a fine-tipped pen.  I love it when the printer lines up my words perfectly across a crisp white page.  I love it here in the paper– my crazy thoughts going out to all who care to read them.

            But last Thursday all I could think about was a different kind of ink.

            To look at me you might not guess I have tattoos.  In fact, now and again I run into someone who’s made an actual bet that I don’t.  Which just tickles me.  I do look like such a vanilla girl.

            But I’m not one of those “feel the burn” ink addicts, either.  Really I’m not.  I don’t like getting my teeth cleaned, so believe you me, there was dread in the pit of my stomach last Thursday as I drove downtown for my tattoo appointment.  I was so anxious it never occurred to me to look for a Reader.  That’s pretty anxious – usually I can’t wait to see my words in print… my too-subtle titles massacred …and the crazy view of the back of my own head.

            There is, of course, a long convoluted story behind my recently beautified tattoo.

            It was tattoo number 2, and I got it last fall, but for whatever reason the ink didn’t take, and I ended up with a trip to my doctor, heavy-duty antibiotics, and a disappointing mess.  Not to mention pretty much a full month of excruciating pain.

            Not an experience a person ever wants to repeat.

            Nevertheless I arranged daycare for Little Miss one afternoon and made a trip downtown to talk to someone about fixing it.  I still loved the original idea.  I still wanted a nice tattoo instead of an ugly mess.  I thought maybe I was brave enough for another go around.  The “cute kid” story here is that when we got home my daughter said, “Let me see that fixed tattoo, Mom” and lifted up the back of my shirt to look.  And I thought, “Dang, this kid totally listens to my telephone conversations,” and found myself explaining to her what making an appointment is all about.  She’s not even 3 years old.  How crazy is that? 

            Anyway.  I’m determined to go through with it even though I’ve been warned that re-inking a tattoo hurts more than getting it the first time.  Okay, queue up the breathing exercises.  I mean, come on, I’ve had a kid, I can get through an hour of ink, right?  Um, right?

            Oh yeah.  To tell the truth it wasn’t bad at all.  I mean, there’s an element of discomfort – we are, after all, talking about needles and ink and skin.  But nothing like last fall.  This was a different artist with what I suspect must be a very different technique.  And no pain afterward.  No pain on day 2 or day 3.  Oh yeah, and no tattoo-prints on my clothing or my sheets.  There’s a plus.  Ink that stays put.

            When I picked up my daughter she again lifted my shirt and was rather furious to find a white bandage taped over the tattoo.  “You may see it tomorrow,” I told her, “and when we get home you can see a picture.”  For a few brief moments I wonder, should an almost 3 year old even know this much about tatts?  But then I shrug and know that it can’t be helped.  She lives here.  She’s going to notice it, and I’m better at being up front with her than being evasive.

            I wish I could put words together to describe the moment I looked in the mirror and saw, for the first time, what I thought I might only ever dream.  My passion, infused into my skin with indelible ink –  a writer’s symbol to be sure, but with whimsy and art and spirit.

            The day after ink… I step out of the shower, bandage removed, to find the family’s smallest critic waiting impatiently, “Let me see that fixed tattoo, Mom.”

            “Don’t touch, it’s like an owie right now.” 

            “I won’t touch it, I promise.”  She didn’t.  Then, “Ooh, Mommy, it’s beautiful.”

            She’s right.  It is.

 

*Tattoo and photo by Jay at Anchor’s End in Duluth.