My life is definitely different. I could never bemoan my mediocrity. Well I could, it just wouldn’t be true. It’s not that I live the life of a rock-star, far from it in fact. Somehow though, bizarre things happen in my life that only seem odd once someone else reveals them to be. Like the story of how I got my first tattoo.

It was summer, sometime around July or August, I can’t remember for sure but I know it was during summer vacation. The year was 1991, I’d turned thirteen earlier that spring. Mom and I sat in the living room talking about what we had planned for the day and if we could squeeze in a trip to the zoo.

In the background Geraldo came on the TV, this was when he was still doing his trashy daytime talk-show. Forget Jerry Springer, this was the original three ring circus. The episode that day was ‘tattoos and the people who are addicted to them’. Rather tame for Geraldo but we watched none the less.

Looking back, what amazes me is how he always managed to miss the mark. As I recall, he had on some bikers and biker chicks who each had a dozen or so tattoos. Now I’d expect to see people with full sleeves or a body suit. For an entire hour these biker tat-addicts waxed poetic about their tattoos, which for them amounted to something along the lines of ‘I luv ‘em a little more than my wife and almost as much as my Harley’. One quote that stuck with me came from this gnarly looking big dude who said, “They’re like those potato chips. You can’t have just one.”

After the show Mom asked what I thought about getting a tattoo. I probably said something like yeah that’d be neat or cool (whatever the verbiage was in those days) and it was settled. We were getting tattoos. Where does a suburban housewife and her go to find a tattoo parlor? The yellow pages of course!

That same afternoon we ended up at a small tattoo studio down by the Lake. It was like something straight out of the sixties. Beaded curtains, wood paneling and even a female tattoo artist, with long straight black hair, named Shadow. Earlier, we’d decided to get our tattoos on the same arm, mother and son bonding at its best! We picked out our designs with relative ease, for Mom a rose and for me a hawk. We were then escorted into the back room.

Shadow told me to have a seat in the big chair, which looked suspiciously like that of a dentist’s, while she traced the outline of my design on a piece of transfer paper. She positioned the tracing on my arm and rubbed it on. As she got her supplies together, Shadow explained how the autoclave they used cleaned needles between customers. During all of this, I felt quite calm, despite the impressive array of machinery and sharp implements. Maybe it was because she told us that it would feel like a cat scratch.

After checking the needle a couple times she went to work. I knew thirty seconds in that I did not like this but it was too late to stop then. To this day I don’t know if it was just my perception or because I was so young but it hurt, a lot more than a cat scratch. Once she had the outline finished I was done. She assured me that the coloring needle was different and wouldn’t hurt as much. but I wasn’t having it. No amount of convincing or cajoling would get me to let her color it, especially not after that cat scratch fib. Mom got her rose completed without incident, including color.

That was it. We had tattoos. We were now part of the American sub-culture. To us they were the coolest thing ever. We were proud of them and showed them off whenever we got the chance. The reviews were mixed to say the least. My great-aunt loved them. My god-mother hated them. Dad on the other hand, didn’t talk to either of us for a week.

Fifteen years later, I’ve had my tat colored and added two more. They don’t hurt at all now, although I do like piercing better. Currently, I have the hawk, a fire salamander and a symbol for strength of spirit. I still have two more that I want(a water serpent and a forest creature). But, I’m not sure of the designs yet. I guess the potato chip guy was right after all, who knew!