Ink
Facing my commitment issues
I’ve wanted a tattoo on and off since I was 17. At first, it was angel wings on my shoulder blades, like Nicole Richie. But my mom said she would rip off my toenails, so it didn’t feel worth it.
In college, I wanted ‘Made in Holland,’ like Cara Delevingne, but on my butt cheek. I was so serious about it that I even got a temporary version in Mexico on Spring Break to see if I liked it. It was adorable, actually, but I never followed through. Mostly because someone once told me that you should never get a tattoo while drinking, and, Piña Coladas and tequila shots were priority numero uno on that trip.
In my early 20s, I was living in New York and working in fashion. It was the era of Jon Boy tattoos. Bang Bang was a status symbol and celebrity tattoo artists were a non negotiable. If I was going to get something permanent on my body, than I would only go to the best of the best. Which is rich, given that two years prior I was heavily considering a poke and stick by a random guy on the beach in Mexico. But I was different now. Sophisticated. And I wanted at least three teeny tiny tattoos to decorate my limbs. An ‘M’ in old english font in case anyone forgot my first name. A cross on my middle finger to be ironic. Horizontal script across my ribcage so that everyone knew when I wasn’t wearing a bra. Thankfully, even with mates rates I was too broke to follow through on this vision.
If you’re sensing a pattern then you’re onto something. I was extremely susceptible to outside influence. At the time, I don’t think I could even really articulate why I wanted one. I knew I wanted to be different. I knew I valued artistry. I liked to self adorn and had countless earrings running up and down my lobes. But I was also impulsive. I got my belly button pierced within hours of turning 18 and not needing parental sign off. So it’s curious why I never pulled the trigger.
There was something deeper at play. I think, despite not being able to recognize it, I knew none of the above were authentic to me. I worried that future me would regret it. That period of my life was so steeped in self discovery, and, looking back, I didn’t give myself nearly enough credit for how in tune I was with my intuition.
As I got older, my desire for fleeting trend-based tattoos faded, but the deeper tug remained. Almost a decade before my dad ever got sick I had an inner voice telling me that my first tattoo would honor him. I knew the one thing that I would never regret was something that made me think of my dad. The thing about Alzheimer’s is it can have you grieving someone while they’re alive for a long time. For me, the grief was always there, subtly hovering in the corner of my subconscious once his illness became impossible to ignore. It also became more acute in the face of packing up his home to sell, rereading old emails and crying in hotel beds, and playing old voicemails desperate for a time travel device.
Fast forward and it had been more than a year since my dad died and I was still ink-free. I thought about doing it often, but couldn’t get myself to commit. My inner fear was still stronger than my intuition at that time. It wasn’t until I met someone last summer who changed my perspective. The day after we met, he was getting his next tattoo. He told me how he recently started to get a tattoo after every big trip he took. Memories from each experience etched in his skin that would never be forgotten. Or become a regret. I loved that. He was telling the story of his life on his body. And I got a front row seat to see it happen. It excited me. I pictured him old, wrinkled, showing his grandkids the red jellyfish on his forearm, explaining his scuba diving adventure, their eyes lit up. It clarified something in me. I was ready to commit.
Ironically, despite almost two years with one idea in my head of what my eventual tattoo would be, it all changed in a day. I thought I would get a phrase my dad used to sign off emails to me with: be brave. It’s something I would repeat over and over to myself throughout the years of his illness. I repeated it so often that I thought, well, if ever I were to get something tattooed on my body, this would make sense. It’s like how therapists say to get things out of your head by writing it down. It was my permanent reminder to lace up my boots and face life head on.
But the fateful appearance of an old piece of mail changed my mind. I had been staying at my aunt’s house and she randomly found a letter that my dad had written to my other aunt who lived in DC. How it ended up in Pasadena, we still don’t know. He signed it off in a way that was so him - “Enjoy your life!” It was earnest. It made me laugh. It made me think what a weirdo. As soon as I saw his handwriting in that phrase there was no overthinking, it was obvious. Instinctual.
What’s that saying? Do something everyday that scares you? Well that’s how I’m trying to live these days. By committing to something everyday that scares me. Which seems a little less daunting now that I committed to permanent ink on my body. And honestly? I want more. I am not, in fact, resistant to the tattoo flood gates opening as everyone warned me.
So I might still get ‘be brave’ somewhere on my body. Because I am still an over-thinker. I might still get ‘made in holland’ on my ass. Because I am still unserious. Also, it definitely isn’t going to hurt on my ass.
xoxox
Merel
Cackling and smiling at my phone