You don’t have any tattoos she said.
Nope I said.
I don’t have any now but I am going to get three roses with vine and have it on my heart she said.
Nice I said trying to picture what she was talking about.
The roses are for each of the children and the vine is for my husband she paused turned her gaze from the TV to me and said so do you think you will get one ever?
No, I said. I like tattoos have nothing against them find the one on my husband’s shoulder sexy as hell but they aren’t for me.
She cut me off before I could finish.
What about your kids they would mean something. Represent something. She said it kind of funny like she thought I was being pretentious.
Nah I said pulling my knees up to my chest the lounge room was getting colder. I wanted to tell her what I had decided, that I had three boys and I had given my whole body to them. I got stretch marks, my hips widen, my feet grew a size, and then there is the c-section scar done three times over. I got enough memorabilia on my body without adding some ink that doesn’t belong to me.
Well, what about your husband she asked you could get a tattoo marking him.
No. I said a little more firmly than I intended. I had contemplated it but I don’t need a tattoo to show how much he means to me. I toyed with the idea once not his name but just something to represent him but I want to keep my body for me besides he will be forever tattooed in me. He helped change me, he made me better. He was the reason I had those babies but I don’t need a tattoo of him on me.
As she looked at me I started to feel the need to explain further but I didn’t offer what I was thinking I couldn’t see the point.
I don’t need ink on my body to represent a cross section of my life I am it. I like who I am. I am stronger because of them.
She looked at me again for an answer instead, I smiled and found myself thinking about the day I came to the idea of that my ‘imperfections’ were my tattoos and I didn’t need additional ones marked into me. The imperfections things that get hidden and photoshopped out were my ‘tats’ and it changed the way I looked at myself. It took me a long time to become one with my marks, my saggy boobs from three pregnancies and three breastfed babies. My wider thighs and even bigger feet were my tattoos like a cultural tattoo or scarification they marked something in my life. They represented me and something to be proud of after I saw them this way I accepted myself better. It was crazy mindshift. Life gave me tattoos. Life. Some people don’t get an opportunity to get stretch marks, wrinkles and saggy bits.
And if I was to get a tattoo it would be small and not one anyone would see because I’m private that way but I totally get why people get them some are absolute works of art not to mention the cultural tattoos I am in awe but I’m a private person that way.
However these are my tattoos to me and with the exception of the sagginess becoming a little saggier than I hoped I’m pretty proud of them because its part of me and who I am but it’s a bit like plastic surgery if it makes you feel better then go for it because at the rate my butt is sagging its an option I may consider.
I didn’t offer her any of that.
I don’t recall the last of the conversation because I went back to watching the TV hoping anxiously that I hadn’t offended her and her well thought out design.
xx Deb
