In which I answer email.

“So, now it’s your turn. You didn’t really mention the “why” of your
tattoos in your recent post. So, why?”

–Shloppy Shenry Shrimp Kabob

Okay, um, my first one, the om symbol: So it’s five or six years ago, on, approaching, or near Valentine’s Day. I’m in Iowa City with my boyfriend, he’s already got a couple of tattoos and I have none, and suddenly we’re in the tattoo parlor in the Hall Mall with cash in hand and it’s time to sink or swim.

I think, “What do I know for a fact I’ll be able to stand forever?” Well, an esoteric/spiritual symbol, naturally. Which = om, on that particular day. Plus I’m Hindu. So om it was.

I had a bracelet on, a five-metal bracelet with Om Namah Shivaya or some other sloka in Sanskrit, and the bracelet had these little decorative doo-dads on it. The bracelet had been on my wrist for over five years, had been put there by my guru. It was the most important thing I owned at the time. So I showed it to the artist and he used the doo-dads in the design.

The boyfriend paid for it. I count it as a VD gift, even though the date, in his opinion, was random. *grin* The placement was a spur-of-the-moment decision and not significant. Low back tattoos, that’s what chicks do, right? *shrug*

Couple years later and we’re married, we go to Chicago for an anniversary weekend. We go to Jade Dragon, which is a famous award-winning parlor, rock stars go there, blah blah blah, and I forget to bring the art I want along with me. So I get a piece off the wall, a small Japanese character that’s supposed to mean “to serve, to work, to do,” but probably says “saltine crackers” or something. (I’m too afraid it’s wrong to actually ask someone Japanese to translate, because then I’d have to get it covered! Snort!) It’s on my right shoulder, on the front, maybe two inches below my collarbone. It’s small. I think I only paid $75 for it.

Next year, we’re back in Chi-town for another anniversary, and the piece I want — this — is $415, more than I can afford. So I get more art off the wall – that “tribal” low back one you saw. I’m no longer worried about that “will I love it forever? is it MEANINGFUL?” crap. First of all, I intend to get most of my ink on my back where I can’t even see it, so the odds of my getting tired of it are fairly low. I got the third tat under the om because the om was too high.

Also — and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about what this may say about me — I think I’m into it for the endorphins. I love getting tatooed. I didn’t realize that until the third one, but there it is. It’s a fantastic experience. I love the needle, I love the initial “WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?” feeling and then that strange transitional period, that easing into it, followed by that weird, it-hurts-but-I-don’t-really-mind period, followed by the ‘this feels warm, I feel kinda good, I could seriously sit in this chair forever’ state. And then you’re done, and they bandgage you up, and you pay, and you go outside to wait for your cab and spend half an hour shaking and giddy like a highschool girl at a slumber party. I love that. The fact that I end up with a tattoo at the end is (almost!) an incidental bonus.

I seriously need to get a jar and start saving up loose cash in it. I could have $415 in no time.