Inked!

“Brands belong on cattle, and that’s not what we’re selling here.  D’ya catch my drift?”

So said Dolly Parton in “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” although I wouldn’t describe a Bible verse tattooed on the inside of my left wrist as a “brand.”  I like to think of it as permanent jewelry that I bought for myself, to mark an important part of my life and to remind me of what’s really important.  And although I’m unemployed for the time being, I’m far from being desperate enough to resort to the world’s oldest profession, so feel I can ignore Miss Mona’s rules.

I’d been considering a tattoo ever since I finished college, but wavered a lot on what I wanted (something I’d be okay with for the rest of my life) and where I wanted it (somewhere easy to conceal that wouldn’t stretch or distort if I ever have a baby.)  About a year ago, I decided I wanted either Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8 or 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 on either my wrist or my ribcage.  I figured I’d make it a gift to myself once I got to Chicago, and decide on the specifics in the meantime.

Luckily, there happens to be a very reputable, well-known tattoo parlor in the neighborhood I moved into, so one Friday night after my birthday, my college roommate came in from the suburbs and distracted me while a Kurt Cobain lookalike dug a needle into my arm.  (I went with the wrist mostly because I wanted to be able to look at it without having to take my shirt off. I decided on Ecclesiastes because I thought it was a little more original than Corinthians, which people quote all the time.  And I had the notation inked on my wrist, not the whole passage - that question has come up more than once.)

There’s not much else to tell because everything went well.  It was my first time, and while it did hurt more than I expected, it was over in about five minutes.  (Insert “that’s what she said” joke here.)  I spent twice as much time signing the paperwork, discussing the design with the artist and waiting for him to set everything up, all the while psyching myself up more and more.

Former Roommate sat on a stool across from me, and we chatted about my recent haircut to keep my mind off the incessant stinging.  I told her how it was all I could do to not burst into tears in the middle of the salon, and how I went home, ate a whole Pappa John’s pizza, and went to bed.  “Kurt” stopped and looked up at me.

“You did what?”

“Yeah, I know.  Not healthy.  I’m an emotional eater sometimes, haha.  Part of being a girl.”

“No, I mean, you ordered Pappa John’s?  I wouldn’t say that too loudly around town if I were you.”

“Really?  Why – OH.”

I caught his drift and felt like an idiot. Here I am in what could arguably be the Pizza Capital of the World (behind Rome and New York, and they do pies much differently there) and I ordered Pappa John’s, which you can get in practically any town from Peoria to Podunk?

With that cleared up, I guess I’m one step closer to being a “real” local.