Invisible Ink

Every tattoo should have a tale.

Back before I got sick, we'd registered for the Great Urban Race-- a kind of local chapter of the Amazing Race with a 5k worked in. Our team name was Batman and Robinson, on account of the symbol tattooed on my husband's arm.
"Why'd you get that?" I'd asked him.
"Because everybody has Superman. I wanted to be different," he replied.

Even though I didn't see the difference--not really-- I could relate to the sentiment.That's sort of how my tattoo situation happened, too.

When you turn 18 and realize it will still be three years before you can exercise your right to vote, the rest of the options are pretty bleak.
Lottery tickets.
Cigarettes.
Tattoos.
Well, everybody knows the dangers of lottery tickets and cigarettes. That left tattoos.

Indecisive by nature, I've been known to get tearfully overwhelmed just trying to pick sandwich toppings at Subway, so the first two opportunities came and went without much fanfare. Friends got inked with butterflies, flowers, and dolphins while I tried to determine what my favorite something was.

Then came the night in Deep Ellum when I'd accidentally discovered that the charming fellow I'd been dating for two months had a fiancee of four years and a wedding date one short month away. I was crushed.

"I know what will make you feel better. Let's go get tattoos," my friend Lisa said, which seemed like an acceptable act of anger and grief when she suggested it. Plus, there are about a zillion ink shops in that Dallas neighborhood.

But I knew the second we stepped inside that this was not the best way to heal. Not to mention, the place smelled awful, which is always the case but especially putrid when your heart is breaking.

"I don't want a permanent reminder of how much my heart is hurting right now," I confided.
She understood. We ended up at Cafe Insomniac with nuclear-girlscout java mint milkshakes instead. The caffeine-adrenaline combo numbed the pain.

The next opportunity arrived: my 21st birthday. The traditional drinkfest wasn't an option because I had an early exam the next morning, but a tattoo seemed like an equally appropriate way to celebrate. My roommate, whose birthday had been two days earlier, decided to celebrate with a tattoo, also.

There were not quite as many ink shops in Denton as in Deep Ellum, but there were at least six. I knew where I wanted to go.

The trouble began when we realized there would be a significant wait. There was no way I could stand that smell for two hours, and they didn't take reservations during the week.

Next place, same thing!

Place number three was equally busy, but they did take reservations. The first available timeslot was midnight, which was no longer my birthday.

Had the entire population of this town decided to get tattoos on an obscure Tuesday night in April?

The fourth place, which ironically was the closest to home and almost directly across the street from our apartment, had a vacancy for 10:45 pm. If they stayed on schedule, this could work!

It was time to select the art. Art was everywhere. Options covered the walls. It spilled out of albums and books on the makeshift coffeetable in the waiting area.

I'd had three years to think about it and I still hadn't a clue what to get.
It had to be something I could--and would-- care about forever.

Suddenly an hour's wait didn't seem like long enough. My roommate and I searched and searched. Her boyfriend was there, too, by the way.

In the blink of an eye, it was 10:45. The artist was ready, but I was not.

"You guys go on ahead of me," I urged my roommate and her boyfriend. "I still don't know what I want."
"Neither do I," she said. She turned to her boyfriend, "What are you getting?"
"A shamrock, I think."
"Oh, good idea!" she squealed. "I'll have what he's having," she called to the artist.
"Which one? We have several," came the reply.

They decided on number 37. He'd get it on his arm, she'd get it on her rear end.

I backed away as a sick feeling started to rise up in me. I was surrounded by art, yet it was all so...

meaningless.

'I'll have what he's having'? Way to assert your individuality, friend. Again I thought about all these packed ink shops on a Tuesday. My Tuesday. My special day. My quiet rebellion.

In that moment, I realized that I had a better chance of being different and special if I chose to spend my life ink-free.

I knew what I had to do.

I made up a lame excuse and left. I'm sure they all thought I was chickening out,  paralyzed by indecisiveness. Really, though, it was exactly the opposite. I'd made up my mind, and I was content with the way I'd chosen to be different.