My heart on my sleeve…..so to speak

I love music…all kinds of music. It’s like oxygen to me – I can’t imagine a day without it. It has punctuated the best moments in my life and seen me through the most difficult. It can completely transport me back in time to a moment, a friend, an experience in a mere three notes. The right song can completely snap me out of a bad mood, lift my spirits, make my cry – it’s a completely visceral experience to me – one that I truly value.

So when I found myself in a chair at a tattoo shop over the holidays there was absolutely no question what I would permanently scratch into my skin.

Anyone who knows me would find the thought of me willingly getting a tattoo completely ridiculous. I am notoriously weak of stomach and “quease out” at the mere thought of – well – countless things. That said, I’ve always kind of wanted a tattoo – nothing extreme – something simple and something very “me”. I’ve just never had the guts to go through with it when it came right down to it.

So I don’t know what forces came together to get me into that chair (not the least of which, I’m sure, was the gauntlet my youngest kept throwing out … “you’ll never do it….get serious.” But, whatever the reasons, there I was, slightly freaked out, awaiting my “fate”.  And so it began….

I only passed out the one time.

It ‘s not even that it hurt – barely at all, in fact. It was more the thought of what was happening that did it. I couldn’t watch, obviously….and my imagination, I’m quite certain, blew it just a tad out of proportion. But, despite all efforts by my husband – God love him – to distract me with gripping conversation topics like kids’ soccer stats, I was out a minute into it.

I’m told I sported a bit of an Elvis sneer while I “drifted off” into my slumber. Charming…..

The whole thing should have taken about three minutes, but I managed to stretch it out to about twenty.

Anyway – here it is:

I know…I know….hard to believe this put me over the edge, isn’t it? But I love it. In fairness, once I regained consciousness, the guys at the shop told me that the wrist is the absolute most difficult place to get a tattoo and shared stories of how they, too, passed out getting some of their many (many) tattoos. I’m sure they were sincere and not just trying to make me feel better.

In the spirit of this blog-related mission, I suppose I could have opted for something like this:

or one of these:

Fortunately (for everyone…), I know my limits.

People keep telling me that it gets easier with each subsequent tattoo; that it becomes addictive even. To them, I say:

…..Uh…yeah…right…. Not happening, my friends.

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