thinkin' about inkin'

I’m pretty sure I have a sick obsession.  I love tattoos. I am obsessed with them – looking at pictures of them, watching TV shows about them, getting a few of my own.  I remember as a child meeting an older gentleman at my grandfather’s church who had an old, faded anchor on his forearm and I was so intrigued by it.  Even at a young age I knew that that piece of art meant something to that man.  When I was 17, I spent a few weeks in Spain dancing at the World’s Fair, and there was a young woman who was staying at the same air base with my dance group who had the most amazing fairy tattoos across her back. They were so beautiful and I said right there that one day I would have my own ink. 

As I sit here tonight watching a marathon of LA Ink, it occurs to me that the reason I love tattoos so much is that they are very much like a living, breathing autobiography.  Most people – the ones who aren’t sporting Daffy Duck on their asses (ok, and even some of those people too) – have amazing personal stories about each one of their tattoos. One of the things that I love about my own tattoos is that each one reminds me of a particular time in my life.  My first, now ruined by two pregnancies, is a funny reminder for me of my rebellious late teen years.  Another, the word “bloom” on my right wrist, is not only my maternal grandparents’ last name and my eldest daughter’s middle name, it reminds me that it’s important to keep growing and changing.  I won’t describe all of my five tattoos – or my hope that I can add to my collection someday soon, but each of them is meaningful to me for reasons that will be important to me even when the butterfly on my shoulder is now wandering around down by my wrinkled old butt.