Got Ink?

Hell Yeah! This past President’s Day I flung caution to the wind and got screwed, blued, and tattooed!

Actually that’s not quite how it happened. I slipped on major block of ice on Friday morning and was laid up in the house for three days with a severe sprain and torn ligaments. Being confined to the first floor of the house was excruciating, but alas my kindly landlady supplied me with vodka, markers, and coloring books so I wouldn’t go completely insane. I suspect it was more her peace offering so I wouldn’t talk lawsuit because I slipped on the ice in front her house, but hey I wouldn’t do that. Well...(nah I wouldn’t, I’m not that evil).

My friend Mike ( genuinely cool guy that I met during the Valentines day snow storm), was over Friday night with his son to keep me company in my gimpy misery and we got to talking about tattoos. I was impressed with exorbitant amount of ink that he had. I’ve always had a thing for a guy with tattoos. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the image of the perpetual bad boy, or tough guy that appeals to me. I see a big burly dude with ink and generally start salivating. It means they aren’t afraid of a little pain. Which to me means they wouldn’t exactly mind a little pain in the sack either. But I digress…

Normally I am a complete wuss when it comes to pain, and I still remember the experience of getting my first tattoo the day I turned 18. I was rebelling against a strict catholic background (stupid reason I know), but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Yeah…no more plaid skirts and knee socks. Sister Theresa could go directly to….well you know, and from there on in I was gonna be one bad biker bitch!
YEAH!

I remember sitting in the parlor of the man who was going to permanently disfigure me, sweating like a whore during confession, and thinking… Maaaaaybeee this isn’t such a good idea. I didn’t have long to think because about thirty seconds later I had my pants around the tops of my thighs and the artist having just finished applying the stencil onto my skin got the gun whirring. I flinched once; it stung like a hot match. But after the first minute or two the pain subsided, well at least I think it did, I don’t remember much because from what I was told I passed out and was oblivious to the rest of the procedure. I do recall that the friend that went with me had some very deep nail marks embedded into his palm, but he assured me that I only drew a modicum of blood. Some bad ass tough chick I was! I don’t think I even got to look at it until a day later, when I was sure I wasn’t gong to faint or become nauseaous at the site of my own blood. Did I mention I was a wuss?

There it was…a tiny little snake, black and white striped right on my left hip; easily hidden and just for me. I don’t know why I chose a snake, maybe I thought it was cool at the time, dangerous…edgy. Whatever…over the years though through recent weight gain and loss it now looks more like a squiggly worm. What a fucking idiot I was. Luckily it’s in a place where it’s not easily viewed by the public. Thankfully I don’t have to explain it to anyone.

Fast forward 10 years. I still dont have a motorcycle, even though I have dated a few bikers. The only leather I sport is either on my feet or coat. I do have a few riskier pieces but those are only for the bedroom. I'm your typical late 20's female, working day in and out in a regular job, making regular pay, not rebelling against anything or anyone. Well at least not a lot.

Now don’t get me wrong…I don’t regret getting the tattoo. I regret not getting something that had any real meaning for me. I hear it all the time from people, ink-regret. I’ve heard time and again that surest way to end a relationship is to get the persons name tattooed somewhere on your person as a sign of undying love. That lovely image of Tweety Bird on your left breast, or the fact that one of these days you are going to have to explain just who exactly Big Bubba is, and why Grandma was at one point his bitch. Me…I went the inconspicuous route the first time, this time around though I had been thinking for quite a while about my next piece.

I’d been wanting to get a tribute to my father, something in memory of him and what he meant to me. I admit I could have gone the trite route and gotten his name in heart or rose or something equally as cheesy but that just didn’t appeal to me. My father was more to me that just a piece of generic flash. My father was my protector; he was the first person to instill faith in me, and the one person in my life that I knew would go the gates of hell and back for me. He was the closest thing to god in my eyes for the longest time, and even when he fell from grace, when his demons sought to overtake him he still shone in my eyes. His fire, although sometimes dimmed was ever present. I wanted something to represent that, and I found it. It’s kind of cheesy in own way I admit it, but I got the inspiration from watching the movie Michael (John Travolta), and the right after that the stupid Demi Moore movie the seventh sign came on. The idea clicked in my head, I’d seen the symbol before, but I couldn’t remember when. I researched angelic script and old biblical seals and found the ancient Aramaic symbol for the Archangel Michael. I knew instantly, the minute that I saw it that it was the one. Simple, clean and beautiful. This was a few years ago. It was just what I wanted. But I didn’t have the balls to get it. The recollection of how much the first had hurt had been stopping me for months.

But last Friday something that Mike said kind of got to me. He said that physical pain is just that, physical, and it goes away. I shouldn’t let temporary discomfort stop me from what I want. I mulled it over and decided that he had a point. We made plans to go on Monday morning. And so we did. I was nervous, and the pain in my ankle made me walk a lot slower but I was determined to get it done. Armed with conviction and a couple of Vicodin, I limped into the tattoo parlor and proceeded for the second time in my life to get permanently marked up. But this time it wasn’t to be cool, it wasn’t to be edgy. This time it was because I wanted to pay tribute to a good man, I wanted to have him with me in the only physical way I knew how for the rest of my life.

I sat down in that chair and joked around with the artist for a few minutes before we got down to business. He explained what was going to happen, opened up all the tools fresh from the packaging in front of me so I could see that it was all sterile, and proceeded to ask me where I wanted it. After a few minutes of snickering I told him, and he continued on business as usual. I sat in that chair, my head cradled in my folded arms, and this time I didn’t wince. I thought about the pain for a minute, hot and itchy at first, but then it subsided. I focused on a different kind of pain, the memory of the phone call that I got the morning I found out my father was dead. The searing agony of watching my mother crumple in front of me. The screaming torture that erupted from my lungs when I watched his casket lowered into the ground. Then the needle cutting into my flesh didn’t seem so bad, it didn’t hurt at all actually. I was in different place, so far away even that I didn’t realize that it was done until I felt the cooling salve on my back and heard the whirring of the machine stop. The whole experience was almost painless…well at least physically.

When the artist handed me the mirror so I could view the work, I didn’t know what my reaction would be. Would I cry; would I be weirded out? No…I looked and smiled softly. There it was…right between my shoulder blades, the blood red symbol of all that meant the world to me. My father’s symbol, the sigil of the angel who would always watch over me. Most people when they see my new tattoo will never know what it means.

When I finish it, when all is said and done, most people will look at me funny, will wonder what the phrase below it means. I won’t mind explaining, in fact I’ll be proud. No regrets this time…just a loving memory, and physical reminder of the man “Who is like God”.


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