Wednesday, 16 July 2014

ctrl b



About six months ago, I got my first tattoo.

For years, I'd thought about having one, never sure what to choose, never quite brave enough. When I changed career it felt right to mark this immense turning point in some way, and one day I woke up brave. I chose a symbol that's been in my life for as long as I can remember, one that reminds me of my childhood, and that has relevance to my new work.

I booked the appointment. I told no one. I went alone, nervous but excited. It hurt, but not as much as I'd expected. What surprised me was how fast the tattooist worked; it was all over in about five minutes.

I lived with it for months, just a black outline on my arm. Not particularly loud or conspicuous, it sometimes surprised me; I'd forget it was there.

Last week, I went to have it changed, filled in, made bold. That hurt a lot more than the first time, and took longer, but it was still not an intolerable pain.

Since then, more people have spotted it and commented. Perhaps because it's bigger and darker, perhaps because it's summer and I don't have it covered up - who knows? Most people are curious about the symbol and what it means. Some want to know if I think I'll regret it, most of all my mother.

'You'll regret that when you're in the old people's home,' she said to me on Monday. Perhaps she's right... The way I see it, if I make it to an old people's home I will have a. retired (unlikely, given my poor pension provision), and b. not died young. Both of these things should and would make me lucky and happy, as would memories of a life well lived. If I'm moping around there, regretting my tattoo, please remind me what's important.

Please remind me I was bold.


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