tattoo you

I hope my mother doesn't read this post.

Yes, even at my age I still worry what my mother thinks.

Anyways, it has been bloody freaking hot. Any chance I get or rather, gather up the energy I head for the beach. The biggest thing I notice on Salisbury beach is other than everyone wears the prerequisite red sox baseball cap (myself included) is that everyone on this beach seems to have tattoos.

I mean even grandmas have tattoos not just teenage boys. Yikes.

And it usually isn't just one small picture either.

You can call them 'tattoos, "'tats, "body art' or even the negative term, "tramp stamp".

I am compelled to stare at some of the "designs' people choose to put on their body forever.

Some people have their entire body covered with tattoos.

I cringe.

Let me tell you first hand it freakin' hurts like hell.

Yes, I have a tattoo.

On November 23rd, 1993, I took a ride up to Seabrook with a 'biker' friend of mine and got a tattoo.

I was going through a rebellious time and at the same time, I wanted something that identified who I really was through a simple tattoo.

Just to clarify what I mean by "rebellious". I was not rebelling against my parents. I never did and I never would.

I was, however, rebelling against my (ex) husband.

Our relationship was ending and I would do everything I could just to piss him off. This was my body, not his, and I could do what ever I wanted.

And yes, I bought myself a motorcycle. I would come and go whenever I F*&^ing felt like it.

I loved the freedom.

It was like blood in the water.

The more I had the more I wanted it.

Freedom is not something someone else can give and take away from you. I discovered all along that it was mine to enjoy all along.

Allallulah.

So it was appropriate that I got a shark tattoo.

This was my "girl scout badge" that I had earned since, yes, I went diving with sharks in the Bahamas.

A shark is my "spirit animal totem".

I am still amazed when I see people with multiple tattoos.

My experience in getting one was daunting.

I walked into the tattoo parlor amazed at how professional and clean it was.

The operating room was just that, like an operating room. A clean sheet covered table with a detail lamp overhead. The instruments were encased in packages that just came out of an autoclave similar to one's used for sterilization in a dentist office. Packages of disposable gloves and hazardous waste disposal"sharps" boxes were present. The only difference between this operatory room from a dentist office is that the "practioner" was not wearing a white lab coat but a leather vest, jeans with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The magazines present were not "Good Housekeeping" magazines nor "National Geographic" but "Outlaw biker" and "Extreme Tattoo".

I pulled the side of my pants down but not low enough to expose my bum. I was nervous about exposing myself. The practioner seemed indifferent. I leaned over on the table reading "Extreme tattoo" to keep my mind busy. The smell of disinfectant enveloped me. The sound of the tattoo engraver buzzing was making my heart race. The shock of the first pin prick booted up the adrenaline.

As I opened the magazine quickly to keep my mind occupied, the first page of "Extreme tattoo" I saw was a picture of an older guy who looked like the comic actor Lesley Nielson. However, he was completely naked covered head to toe in tattoos. The part that triggered my wooziness was that he was pierced with about 5 long needles sticking through his penis looking like a big scary looking mace.

OMG

The room started to spin and down I went.

The practioner was sympathetic and offered me a Coke. After I drank it and I urged the practioner to finish his work so long as I could lay down.

He did, and periodically asking me if I was OK.

It did hurt, but I was OK.

They basically carve into your skin with a super fine needle.

I am glad I got it but I do not think I would get another one.

I think one special one is enough.