When all is said and done, I tend to be a bit of scaredy cat. I’m a terrified flyer (blogs on row-counting and god-bartering are forthcoming), paralyzed by heights, the sight of a needle has me breaking out the Lamaze, and the idea of voluntarily and purposefully opting for some kind of physical pain (my current boot camp excluded!) is nauseating.
I also tend to err on the side of caution, so color me surprised that I have done the unthinkable, and gotten a...tattoo.
A little more than a week ago, I ventured out to Canmore for a self-imposed writer’s retreat. The goal was to finish the novel that I had started writing about 6 years ago, and haven’t touched in 2. As I proclaimed 2009 the ‘year of no fear’, I thought it was high time to bite the proverbial bullet, and just finish it already, no excuses. (On a side note, there is something to be said for the romanticization of the process. ‘I’m writing a book has a certain literary ‘je ne sais quoi’, more so than, let’s say, ‘I finished my book, no one wants to publish it, and now what?’ )
The fear of ultimate rejection aside, the goal was a lofty one, and while I made some serious headway, I did not finish like I had hoped. What did happen however, was a series of epiphanies that must surely accompany any lengthy period of alone time, minus the distractions of everyday life. (And some omm-inspiring mountain views.)
That being said, a sense of empowerment took hold, and as I was driving through Canmore figuring out
the proper way to commemorate my trip, my eyes looked up to see the window of a tattoo studio whizzing by. Far be it for me to ignore an obvious sign, I called and left a message. If they called me back and had an available appointment on my last day, I would go ahead with the unimaginable...
As luck would have it, I was slotted in at noon.
Still more than a little unsure that I would actually go through with it, I started putting fantasy on paper, doodling my theoretical tattoo. Just how would I symbolize all the facets of what I love, am passionate about, and inspired by? I wasn’t sure, but I knew it would come to me...
And it did...
And so I went...
To say I walked into
New World Samurai with an air of confidence would be a lie of the bold-faced variety. So I will preface the hour of me waiting to get permanently inked by saying that I was scared sh#@tless.
While those of you with tattoos (and the many without) might find this overly grandiose sense of dread amusing and unnecessary, for someone who once upon a time put down a deposit on an intended tattoo and bolted, this was a big deal.
So as my tattoo artist,
Corson Hayes, finally motioned for me to step up to the plate, I took a deep breath, and sat down. I asked him to try and qualify the upcoming pain for me, which he said was hard to do. I believe he said one of his past clients had likened the tattooing experience to a continuous paper cut, which did nothing to appease my panic and nervous laughter. (I mean a paper cut!? Those sons of b#$thces hurt!)
And then we started—needle to skin, and the point of no return.
Instructed to keep a continued yoga-type breathing sequence going, I admit it was a tall order considering my consciousness was overrun with ‘damn this hurts!’, firing on pretty much all cylinders for the first 10 minutes.
And then a funny thing happened...I started to relax, and settled in to the ritual of what was happening, and allowed the inexplicable rush of personal power wash over me. As Corson later put it, it’s as much about the ritual as the eventual visual, and as corny as I know it must sound, I understood what he meant.
In just under an hour, the transformation was complete, a permanent reminder on the back of my neck of
all that was, is, and will be. It is not overly abstract or intangible, and those who know me well will know all that it encompasses.
While it is not readily visible to everyone, and I can’t see it without the aid of two mirrors, the knowledge that it is there radiates, and makes me walk a little straighter, and stride a little firmer. I don’t know if this sense of elevation is inherent to all who have been tattooed, but it lets me know I did the right thing for the right reasons.
Even if the thought of another needle leaves me reaching for a barf bag.