Ink'd

Today I wore a shirt that covers everything, but has slits in the back that easily blow up when caught by the wind. I feel the need to reiterate that this is a work-appropriate shirt, so it's not like I'm flashing anything for all of the world to see; however, my anxiety is always slightly heightened when I find myself in compromising situations of lower back exposure. Ahem... My tramp stamp area, if you will.

Before you even ask....

• NO - I do not regret getting my tattoo. 
• NO - I do not regret the placement of my tattoo. 
• NO - I do not regret the fact that my tattoo is a Kanji symbol for Integrity. 
• YES - I have other tattoos.
• YES - I will probably get another one (or two, or three...) before I die.

So why am I so self-conscious about this little piece of art? That's easy... Because of the preconceived notion that having a lower back tattoo must mean I am one of (or all of)  the following: trashy, promiscuous, dumb, etc. WHY?  Why would the presence of lower back ink ever mean any of those things?! It wouldn't...

Tramp stamps aside, I'm always shocked when I experience the reactions of others when they find out I have been ink'd multiple times. Though I should be completely offended, I relish in the fact that this topic of conversation almost always arises when a colleague or friend makes an unwarranted statement about a visible tattoo on another. For no other reason than placing judgement, this continuously happens throughout my life and is almost always done by a very open minded person. What is this social stigma of ink? Why is it so wrong to have a tattoo?! What happened to the timeless "to each his own," and "if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all" mantras in which we were so staunchly raised? I see your mantras and raise you a "practice what you preach!"

It must be noted that I never find myself angered in these situations. I'm more so curious as to how someone can be so objectionable to an act of individuality? Regardless, the level of entertainment that emerges when they begin to squirm their way out of the already offensive comment that was made is priceless. They struggle to wrap their heads around the contradiction of a career-driven woman - very much with her shit together - knowingly doing such a thing to her body. Their confusion regularly prompts the follow-up statement, "You do not strike me as the tattoo type."

My gut reaction is typically a "what the fuck does that mean?" reflex, but I normally refrain from saying it out loud. You see, individuality is what makes us who we are at our core. For someone to know me very well as an adult, yet be so taken aback by something that is so very much a part of who I am piques my interest. What is their perception of who I am exactly? Am I living the truest version of myself for them to have such a point of view?

This is definitely not a story of soul searching or open mindedness, but rather a tale of discretion. While I am very much a tattoo person, I am also insanely private. I do not radiate the level of "social defiance" one associates with having visible tattoos, because mine are kept to myself. This is intentional. My tattoos mean something to me, not anyone else. You don't have to love the stories behind them - only I do. By keeping them discretely placed, I dodge the judgmental bullets of both having ink at all, and the rationale as to why.

I love every tattoo I have. I love what they all symbolize - each a milestone in my life that I want to keep with me forever. That's right, even the tramp stamp. When people ask about it, I proudly remember the moment when my best friend finally turned 18 - just 13 days after I did. We were able to go - TOGETHER - to get our first tattoos during Spring Break of our Senior year of high school. I remember searching high and low, checking my facts to ensure my tattoo symbol was accurate. I also remember not wanting to risk it, drawing it myself so that I knew what was on me was correct. I remember going first and not even knowing they had begun inking me - high pain tolerance, I guess?! I remember Cassie squeezing my hand so tightly for the exact opposite reason, because her experience was not as easy. And, finally, I remember immediately driving around the corner, walking into The Watkins Barrel and showing my parents what we had done.

When people tell me, "You do not strike me as the tattoo type," I reflect upon this experience ever so clearly. In truth, I've always wanted a tattoo. I remember being very little and thinking it was so cool when the Olympic swimmers would get tattoos of Olympic rings when they made the U.S. team for the first time. I wanted that. And because I was totally young enough to think that I was going to make it to the Olympics, my mom had given me permission to get this specific tattoo when I made the Olympic team. At 5'5", the odds never really fell in my favor...

Silver lining? Everyone turns 18. So when I'm told that I am not the "tattoo type," I think back to this first tattoo moment and realize how very wrong they are. I think it can be summed up by my mom's initial response to what I had done:

"We always knew you would do it, but thought you would at least wait until you went to college..." 

Close enough, right?! Now for the next one.....