Tattoos. They say once you get one, it’s hard to stop.
Whomever the hell “they” are, were right.
I got my first taste for addiction when I was 21; I was helping coordinate a tattoo convention being held at a hotel I worked at during the time and got an offer for a huge discount on one of my choice after scoring a good hotel price for the lead artist in charge. I’d always wanted one and it had been a year after losing my grandmother, so I knew my first should be dedicated to her.
My grandmother collected crosses most of her life and during my younger years had bought me seven of them.
I lost them all. Jewelry and I will never have a lifetime of memories together.
So for my first tattoo, I decided to get a cross on my wrist–which hopefully I will never, ever lose. It’s small and dainty and sometimes I like to stare at it to remind myself of my grandmother, what she stood for and the memories of her. She didn’t have tattoos of her own but I know she would have loved it. She was cool like that.
My pops, on the other hand, upon discovering my tattoo virginity was taken, reacted like this:
He was a little more calm the time he discovered my second tattoo, which by then I was 23 and out of my first serious relationship that I had ended. This time around I chose a flying dove on my ankle, for some symbolic reasons but if anything to remind myself to not ever put myself in a relationship with the likes of someone who was controlling and verbally abusive.
Being young and naive, you make excuses for people or shield a blind eye to certain things and situations because you don’t want to face the truth. However at a certain point, you have to face the music–and the smartest thing to do is to dance on out before it’s too late.