When I was a kid, I was fascinated by the work my uncle did as a tattoo artist. I always thought there was something nifty about liking a picture or phrase so much that you'd put it on your body for the rest of your life. My brother and I used to be obsessed with finding temporary tattoos in what we considered to be "cool" designs. Mom was less than thrilled about our love of body modification. I remember when I got my first tattoo as a teenager. I'd been saying I was going to get one since I was a kid but once I actually followed through with it, my mom's reaction was not what I expected. She cried. She said that she thought I was perfect from the day I was born and she didn't understand why I needed to modify myself in any way. And of course I felt guilty about it cuz, as it turns out, she had a pretty legit and great reason for not wanting me to get inked. But I think she always knew it was coming since we grew up with a tattoo artist in the family. (She later slapped this same tattoo artist/brother for giving each of us our first ink.) A decade later, she is still not happy with any of her children's tattoos. Long ago she decided that ignorance is bliss and that she didn't really want to know when we got new ones. I've been able to adhere to her request (mostly) but my siblings have both chosen to make their ink highly visible; the brother has tattoos on his arms, the sister has some on her wrists. Mom still cringes whenever she sees or hears about a new tattoo any of us have gotten. And I expect the same reaction to my newest work o' art.
I've spoken before about the bond I have with my best friends. I've known Y since birth, A and R since middle school and E and G since my early twenties. The stars seemed to align once all of our paths finally crossed. We're not friends, we're family. And we've been through a lot together. Five engagements, two kids, one car accident, two serious illnesses and countless other good and bad times. We weather the storms together and somehow always manage to come out the other side. We have a tradition of doing dinners after we get past something negative, or when something really positive happens. All of our dinners include toasts during which only two words are said: To life. It started after I was released from the hospital and everybody was thankful I'd survived. It continued after E survived his first battle with the big C. And it emphasized what was important; that whatever we'd just gone through, we'd survived it. It's always been a bit of a comfort to all of us. Yet it was the last thing we thought about when we decided to get a group tattoo. We decided months ago that we all wanted to get inked together but had never been able to have the conversation about what to get. My cousin was getting some finishing touches put on his sleeve and the rest of us tagged along to watch. But tattoo shops are seductive. You think you're going to watch someone else be tortured or to "just look" at some art and, next thing you know, you're walking out with plastic wrapped around you. This occasion was no different. We started looking at art and then decided we may as well just take the plunge. The discussion of what to get was hilarious; G suggested "Thug Life", A wanted something entirely too girly and R got so frustrated with the process that he almost walked out. In the end, it was E who had the final say on what we got. And it was E who brought up the toast. Sold. One by one, we marched on up to the chair and got 'em done. And they're awesome. I haven't gotten a tattoo in years, which is very unlike me, so I'm in a little more pain than I normally would be in. But it was so worth it. And I'm 99% sure I'll be getting another one soon. They really are addictive. Sorry, mom.
