Do you? And if so, what, and what prompted you to get it?
It's not that I'm opposed to them. In fact, some are truly beautiful. And some have intense meaning. And some are both pretty and meaningful.
I'm in favor of beauty in whatever form you experience it. And I quite like the idea of marking one's body as commemoration.
In my early 20s I went with a friend to get a tattoo. She got a dolphin. And then a couple weeks later, a starfish. And then she got a third, and I can't remember what it was, but some kind of marine life.
I started joking that soon she would cast a net across her stomach and then have a tiny snail peeking out of her belly button.
We lost touch a year or so after that, so I have no idea where her tattoo adventures took her.
They weren't my preference, but she enjoyed them.
For me it's that so far there hasn't been anything in life that I've looked at and thought, "I want to put that on my body for the rest of my time on this earth."
I mean, OK, maybe I thought that about a guy or two when I was younger but that was fleeting and anyway now I'm happily married ever after so I don't even know why I'd mention it.
So really, nothing. As such, I haven't.
Yesterday my dear friend Kristin, who you may remember as someone who spends too much time on her hair, turned 46. She was my high school partner in ridiculous shenanigans, my confidante, my fellow eating disordered thigh-size-comparison commiserater.
I have known her since we were very young. We've been friends through a lot of drama trauma.
And as happens with the way that time as I understand it seems to work, every year she turns our new age exactly one week before I do.
This year, to celebrate, to mark a milestone, she got her first tattoo.
I like it. It's pretty and small and simple, with very personal meaning.
Last night I fell asleep thinking about it. And wondering if I'd like to get a tattoo.
Because this past year, while nothing outwardly milestoney like death or birth happened to me, something big did actually happen.
I figured out that I couldn't save my dad. I forgave myself. I started letting him go.
This means that I no longer think about suicide every single day. Because I used to think about it, about what I could've done differently, about what he might've been thinking, about why and how he left us, every fucking day.
And now I don't.
I wasn't at fault. I didn't fail. I couldn't actually have saved him.
This is one of the biggest things to happen to me in a very long time. And I made it happen.
So I feel like this could be a thing to celebrate, to commemorate. I've grown. I've still got lots of scars, but I've healed a great deal.
And then this morning I got a message from Kristin asking my thoughts on getting a tattoo on my upcoming birthday.
I said that actually, she'd really made me think, and I like the idea of words in a simple design. I just don't know what.
And she said, "Pick two words. Just not 'hairy penis'."