“Over My Dead Body”

I was 15 years old and out to dinner with my family: mother Peony, step-father Dick, brother Adam, sisters Tammi and Rhonda.  We were at a Mexican restaurant set in our community’s small downtown. 

Our waitress had a beautiful tattoo and I couldn’t stop looking at it.  It was a beautiful flower nestled amid vines on the swell of her breast.  Gorgeous.  I announce that I wanted a tattoo when I got older. 

My mother announced, “Over my dead body! Or when you’re 18.”  (I used to think she was prudish because of these types of attitudes and comments.)

That gave me 3 years to think about what I wanted for my first tattoo. 

When I was 18 and away at Army training in Fort Gordon, Georgia, I walked to the local tattoo parlor on a Saturday morning and paid for my first tattoo.  It was $20 on my right buttock.  It was a black rosebud. 

It felt like my butt cheek had fallen asleep and was waking up with a million pins and needles in it.  I wore a one piece bathing suit and adjusted the leg hole so the artist could access the area I had chosen. 

A few months later and I’m home on leave.  I’ve met my first husband and we’re planning our wedding so my mother and I go shopping for a suitable dress.  We’re downtown again, in a fun little dress shop.  I’m in the very small, somewhat tatty dressing room.  My mom peeks over the top of the curtain and starts shrieking as she’s pointing.  I think I’m sharing space with a spider and I start spinning around looking for the little monster.  My mom finally blurts out, “What’s that?  On your body?” 

I realize she’s staring and pointing at my tattoo. 

That was many decades ago and I think I’m close to convincing her to get one with me.