It seemed apropos to provide a sequel post in case some of you thought I might—buk, buk, buk—chicken out.
True, I did enter the tattoo shop (and a very nice, upscale one it was, with fabulous staff) feeling “pukey nervous”. The maturity (o-l-d) aspect—some might call it you-should-know-better insight—ought to have quelled the anxiety (or had me running for the hills). I may not have buk-buk-buked (or is that bukked?), but my stomach sure as heck was doing flapjack flips. Still, Ms. Warrior being who/what she is, persevered and ambled to the (oh-so-comfy) chair with head and shoulders held high . . . and tummy hoping not to liberate the grilled cheese sandwich it had happily welcomed a couple of hours earlier.
As the saying goes: you only live once. So, embrace what moves you. And move the tattoo gun did (providing some quasi discomfort, but not out-and-out pain). Four-plus hours of outlining and shading was weathered with scarcely a blink or a tear or a flinch . . . until the last hour, when several calming breaths proved necessary. Still, said and done with [relative] grace.
For those contemplating getting a tattoo, consider—very seriously—what you want. Select something that reflects you. It’s a representation of your soul and core . . . history . . . road through life . . . desires/dream . . . strength and conviction.
Regrets? I’ve had a few, but this is not one of them. As soon as my “badge of courage” is healed, I’ll display it proudly. 😊
The Writer's Grab-Bag 