November 2016
During my time in California last year, I did a Big Thing: I got a tattoo.
I’d always secretly wanted a tattoo, but at the same time I was also terrified by the thought of it. Growing up, I was a nerdy good girl, and tattoos were things that bad kids got in order to rebel or self-express. As it turns out, I have a hidden rebel with a burning desire for self-expression, and she won out in the end.
I had a few other reasons delaying getting a tattoo: 1) I’m cheap, and tattoos cost a lot of money, 2) I was afraid of pain and didn’t want to put myself in a painful situation purposefully, and 3) I wasn’t sure what I wanted, and I wanted to be sure. All of this exhibits how great I am at coming up with excuses and reasons NOT to do something. Also, my Ex didn’t really like tattoos, I think he thought they were stupid or for posers. So while we were together, that just gave me one more reason not to get a tattoo.
But we weren’t together anymore, and I was free to make my own decisions, and no longer had to take his opinions into account when it came to my appearance or life choices. About 3 weeks after we broke up, I got my hair cut in Munich, choosing the kind of spunky pixie cut that I adore but that he never really liked. He always preferred longer, more feminine hair. Well, fuck that. Instantly, I felt braver, stronger, more myself. More awesome.
Around the same time it occurred to me that maybe I should finally get a tattoo. I hemmed and hawed, mulled it over, talked about it with friends, but weeks later was still unsure about whether to take the plunge. Then, in November, 2 months post breakup, I was staying in San Francisco with a friend who has a ton of tattoos. I asked her countless questions, and made up my mind: I was going to do it!
The same friend helped me find a shop where the prices were reasonable and we got good vibes: Cyclops Tattoo, a small, unassuming parlor run by two artists/middle-aged punk rockers on the second story of a building in the hipster Mission district. It felt homemade, and you could tell that running this shop and doing amazing art on people’s bodies was a true labor of love for the artists. I made an appointment for Saturday at 3 pm.
Saturday rolled around, and I was definitely nervous, but excited. That morning I went to an art museum with Leigh*, a different tattooed friend. “Hey, do you want to do something with me this afternoon? Do you want to come with me to get my tattoo?” She was totally down and once we’d had our fill of art went down to the shop.
Since the breakup, I’ve gotten really into reading tarot cards. For me, tarot is like therapy; it’s a way to check in with myself and gain perspective and advice on matters in my life. I’m a fairly logical person, but I also believe in some sort of spirituality that I can’t really define, and tarot has been a great way for me to be in touch with myself now that I’m kind of on my own and sometimes am at a loss on how best to channel my energy and emotions.
My favorite tarot card has always been XIII, the Death card, which sounds a little morbid but to me is actually a positive card. The Death card does not mean actual death, but rather, rebirth, new cycles, the end of some things and the beginning of others. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting card for me in November: I had ended a huge relationship and was embarking on a new chapter, leaving a job in one country for something completely different in another. My life was all about change and transition and things ending and beginning. This was the perfect image to have emblazoned on my body for all time, and a fitting way to truly capture and remember this moment. I chose the design from my own tarot deck, of a winged skull and crossbones with a draining hourglass and three moths fluttering nearby, and decided to get it on my upper thigh, a place I could easily conceal from any future job.
As my artist prepped the transfer and my skin, my nerves were really ramping up. I know at the start I mentioned lots of fears and worries about tattoos, but ultimately, it all boils down to my deepest, darkest fear, the thing that I allow to hold me back in life more than anything else: the fear of the unknown. And ultimately, that’s why I was getting the tattoo. In my new, independent single life, I didn’t want to hold myself back from shit anymore. So what if it was scary? So what if it hurt? Fuck it.
About five minutes after my artist began, I felt really light-headed and we had to stop and take a break. I blame nerves more than anything. Luckily, Leigh is always overly prepared, and had a granola bar in her bag so I ate that and then I laid down for the rest of the process so I could take it easy. My fear of pain was not unfounded. Getting a tattoo is not fun. People say it burns, or tickles, but to me it felt like someone was dragging a needle through my skin, which they were. In some places it hurt less than others, and occasionally it did feel almost pleasurable. But I was pretty glad when it was over.
When I looked down and saw my new tattoo for the first time, I was elated! It was exactly what I wanted, and I’d finally done this thing that I’d thought about for years. I’d done it. I practically skipped down the street, albeit a little gingerly as my leg was pretty tender.
A year later, I can honestly say that getting the tattoo was one of my best decisions. I’m in love with it every time I see it, both with the design itself and for all of the things it represents. The tattoo is also emblematic of this past year’s journey and my struggles and successes with getting over my fears, accepting change, and staying true to myself. It’s a visual representation of a piece of the complex tapestry that makes up who I am, and I adore it.
m.
Next time: A fling with an attractive hairdresser in LA.
*Name has been changed.
The Year of Being Single 