Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love my new ink
By Kelly Hockenberry, Columnist, The Times
Ummmm, sit down, friends. I need to confess a little something. Remember how I wrote about tattoos (not once, but TWICE) and how I never much cared for them?
Well………………………………….
I had a lunchtime margarita (OK, two, but who’s counting?) during a weekend trip to NYC with my besties and left Manhattan with a teeny, tiny memento.
I KNOW! I KNOW!
Let me explain myself. (I have never been at a loss for words before. I’m actually sweating)
The thing is, I don’t have a profound answer. Mid life crisis? Maybe. I do think a part of me wanted to do something completely out of my comfort zone. I mean, I’m a good girl. Always have been (pinky promise Mom & Dad). I never rebelled. Like, not at all.
Before (left), during (center) and after (right).
So, when my girlfriend Patti peer pressured me into walking into a tattoo parlor across the street from the Port Authority, I have to say, it was sorta thrilling…in a terrifying kind of way.
It smelled antiseptic, which instantly put me at ease. Plus, our tattoo artist was a young, cute woman who had no visible tatts or piercings! She was totally patient with me as she reduced the size of the heart shape I chose again and again until I was comfortable (meaning that it could be covered easily by my Marc Jacobs boyfriend watch)
It hurt. Although, I have exaggerated this part a bit so as to make my boys somewhat fearful. Not real confident of my success on that front.
People have been surprised by my decision. There has been a lot of gasping. I’ve been asked for the “meaning” of my tattoo. Hmmmm. Well, it’s a heart that is small and black (not unlike the organ inside my body) but open to change….
Obviously.
Happy Weekend!
