wdydwyd?

My friend Tony runs a neato project collecting portraits of folks answering the question Why Do You Do What You Do? This week he’s got my portrait up there, to be followed in the coming weeks by other campmates of ours from BM07. You can also post your own portrait with your answer to the question. Check it out!

The Last of It

I have taken a certain amount of pride in being tatless. Nearly one in four U.S. adults between 18 and 50 has one or more tattoos, according to the American Academy of Dermatology. Among my age group I’m certain it’s distinctly over half, since we were in our impressionable late teens and 20s during the tattoo boom of the 90s.

Nowadays it’s tattoo removal that’s hot, a procedure that’s costlier and more involved—although apparently recent developments have improved its effectiveness.

Infamously, there’s Johnny Depp’s “Wino Forever,” which—before its retooling— commemorated his romance with the Petaluma-born Ms. Ryder, of shoplifting fame. (Vanessa Paradis and France: well done.)

I took pride in being tatless not because I dislike tattoos—many people I love wear beautiful ones… I think of M’s Escherlike wreath of cranes, birdclan member B’s saturated wings, the red star on S’s wrist, and the blacklight-reflective cuttlefish wrapped around B’s thigh and torso… And of course tats are no pet rocks—for thousands of years before the 1990s people have been adorning and marking their bodies with ink.

But I felt proud just cuz I hadn’t ever felt compelled to get one to get one, and was here, distinctly past the halfway mark of this first decade in the new millennium, as a 30-something with a trampstampless and butterflyfree body.

And then somebody did something nasty to me, which left a small scar about the size of a nickel. After regaining my balance in the wake of that experience, I decided I wanted a tattoo to cover the scar. Something that would remind me of my beautiful transformation.

I was drawn to science and mathematics, to symbols, then to sacred geometry. An intricate geometric figure with mystical meanings spoke to me. I changed the wallpaper on my laptop to the figure so I could stare at it every day for months and imagine it on me.

I had made up my mind. I started asking folks where they got work done. And then out of the blue my tatless friend Caroline told me she was getting a tattoo to honor a heroic rescue operation her brother had been part of. She had a solid recommendation for an artist.

Both of us went in for a consultation with the dude—Scott at Black Heart Tattoo. When he saw my drawing, and the area where it was headed, Scott shook his head and sent me to Mike. To the drawing, Mike said no problem. When he heard I was a virgin and saw where I wanted it, though, he raised his eyebrows. We set a date anyway.

About five hours ago I was lying under a bright light and his steady gloved hands, getting zapped with ink over an area about the size of a hockey puck. I couldn’t really see him working. I had to Just Trust that he would get the fiddly pattern right.

Caroline sat by my side. Just one spot was especially sensitive, and hurt more. Caroline squeezed my hand and said “that was the scar.” I think she also said “that was the last of it,” but I can’t be certain, since I was under the influence of a little something I’d had for the pain, and amped from the endorphins that my besieged body was releasing.

Mike did a brilliant job. I’m thrilled. Mine, this body. I’ve marked it as such.

Si, Se Puede!