Tattoos.
 
I didn’t even have one until I was in my 30’s, and it wasn’t even a midlife crisis.
It just took me that long to figure out what I want. And if that’s not a effing metaphor for my entire existence…
 
 

I never had a problem with them, I was just indifferent. 
 
Now, I realize deep down that I always loved them, and frankly even became more attracted to my husband when I saw his. 
I don’t get insulted when people look at me, with tattoos, and tell me they do not like tattoos. I see the ignorance, and I wish they would instead just feel indifferent, and not get a tattoo. 
 
That’s probably as aggressive as I get on the topic because honestly I don’t care anymore. 
Ironically, my best friend, twin flame, the left Twix to my right Twix, has tattoos that actually changed our relationship. Frankly, they changed my entire set of expectations of myself as a friend. 
 
It was innocent enough, and ignorant, in this guy’s defense. But he referred to her tattoo, that has deep spiritual and emotional roots, as a joke. The problem is: I’m HERE with this guy. I like him and he likes me.
 
This may seem easy enough, friends before boys, right? But that was only my go-to sometimes. Which is bologna.
 
So this was a moment that shocked me. Instead of laughing it off and hoping my friend wasn’t thaaaaat offended because I’m selfish and don’t want to leave. And we aren’t even thattttt close yet, right? (Cringe)
 
No. Not this time. Without a moments thought, I tell her to get her jacket, we are out of here.
 
The guy is bewildered. Immediately apologetic and she even resolves it immediately, so we can stay. We continue to have one of the best nights of our lives. Crisis averted.
 
But the amazing foundation was laid. She finally had a friend that would drop anything for her, and I finally met someone I allowed myself to love enough to sacrifice my pathetic need for a guys attention. And when the time came, she marched the hell out of a party with me too, when I was disrespected.
 
Here is the kick: it’s because of her that I was even able to do that. She showed me that we absolutely did not need a dude to have fun, so we could very well leave and have a party of 2 at our apartment. Guess what else? She taught me tolerance. She took me out of my small bubble. She gently nudged me (not anymore, now she launches me by my legs because I’m 35 and she should). But isn’t it funny? This tattoo which means so much to her, was also the symbolic line in the sand when our bond was made. A tiny tattoo on her shoulder. 

I am no longer indifferent to tattoos. 

In fact, I’m banking on tattoos to speak for me when I can’t.

I know I’m doomed to die old and there’s a chance I lose my marbles. Frankly, I barely have them now so like, I’m kinda effed.

But someday when I’m an empty cooler, someone may feel a regard to respect the owner of the Yeti if you relate to the stickers. 

Hopefully, if some underpaid and exhausted care taker is stuck bathing me, she might notice the turntable on my arm, and she might feel more compelled to go the extra mile. And maybe, just maybe, she will figure out I was once a happy little pothead who just needs her headphones and a bowl of m&ms, and she makes that possible for me.
 
And more terrifyingly, if a bad news bears person gets their hands on me, they may take a moment of pause when they see I was once a person with interests, maybe like theirs. 
 
Get it?
 
If I personalize my skin, then even when I’m weak and naked, I’m humanized. 
 
How can anyone help me if I can’t speak for myself anymore?
 
So tattoos are fun to me. I enjoy pain. I feel in control. I like the culture within tattoo shops. I know the people they turn me off from and the people who they turn me onto. I can find my tribes faster with the things I love written on my body. Even if we speak different languages. Cool right? 

To my best friend, my soulmate, my golden girl: I love you. Thank you. 

Thank you for absolutely everything. 

Especially for pushing the cart at the grocery store. and enjoying it.