Ink

At the ripe young age of 47, as menopause came on, and 10 stubborn pounds came with it, I wanted – no, I needed – something drastic to help me feel better.  I’d heard about this thing called CrossFit.  Yeah, I know, people who CrossFit love to talk about CrossFit.  But *this* is not about CrossFit (entirely) – that’s a post for a different day.  This is how, at the age of 47, enamored with my new-found sport and the tattooed hard-bodies I worked out with, I got my first ink (and then another and then, technically, another.  Don’t tell my mom!)

I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for many years.  There were many reasons why I couldn’t bring myself to do it:  Would “society” look down on me?  What would my friends think?  Would it hurt? (I HATE needles!) Can I afford it?  Will it look trashy?  Would it look unprofessional at work?  What would I get and where would I put it?  What would my family think? 

And there was one reason why I should do it:  I REALLY wanted one!

A friend of mine got one when we were in our 20’s.  She surprised us all, when, at her bachelorette party, she stood up in the middle of the restaurant and dropped her pants!  As a surprise to her husband, she’d gotten a heart with his name scrawled across it, which was scrawled across her gluteus maximus.  Given that we all came from very traditional and very conservative backgrounds, I always admired her for being *that girl*. 

Once on a family vacation, a conversation over dinner turned to tattoos.  My nephew had gotten one.  I was encouraged by him sharing it with our family.

A 20-something friend at the gym had gotten one and said she was going for another.  And bonus!  The tattoo studio she liked was having a Black Friday Sale!  It didn’t take much convincing.  So, while everyone else was headed to Best Buy and WalMart in the wee hours on the day after Thanksgiving, we were headed to Austin – to get some bargain-priced ink!  Yep – you read that right – I got my first tattoo on a Black Friday Sale. 

I still wasn’t sure what I wanted.  I had always thought I would get an infinity symbol in honor of my all-time favorite band, Journey.  I surprised even myself when I strayed from that idea and decided on something to show my love and loyalty for my alma mater, The University of Texas:  a Longhorn head on my shoulder.

I don’t remember it hurting that bad.  It was more ticklish than anything.  At least that’s what my sub-conscious chooses to remember – kinda like having a baby (when you choose to have another and then another).  Freshly tainted … or rather painted … we celebrated with a meal at Magnolia Pancake Haus.  

I returned home with care instructions for my husband; after all, I could not reach that part of my body.  He was so supportive (that’s also another post for another day).  He thought it was sexy, he loved it and still does!  The following Monday, I strutted into my CrossFit box wearing a tank top – I wanted everyone to see my new ink.  I was officially part of the club (or as some non-CrossFitters call it, the cult).  And no, not every CrossFitter has a tattoo.

But I was still embarrassed to show my (non-CrossFitter) friends and family (and I've never shared a CrossFit picture on FB that showed my bare right shoulder either!)  In fact, I’m pretty sure there are still family members who don’t know I have one, let alone, multiple tattoos.  Of course, if they're reading this, they know now.

We’d host pool parties and I’d wear a t-shirt and not get into the pool.  I celebrated the 50^th birthday of one of my college buddies in Cancun; of course, I had to get into a swimsuit – I think she was shocked – and she took pictures!  It wasn’t until my closest group of friends and I celebrated our 50^th birthdays in Destin, when I put on a bathing suit in front of the five of them.  My mom spotted it one day when I was at their house.  With a little smirk, she simply asked, “How long have you had that?” and nothing else was said.  To this day, she’s never mentioned it again.  I still don’t think my dad knows.

And I’m still self-conscious about it. 

Fast forward a couple of years and I decide on a second tattoo.  To combine my love of Disney with my love of Journey, I want a Mickey-head intertwined with an infinity symbol on the inner part of my heel.  I scour the internet (mostly Pinterest – who knew?!) to get some ideas.  Having found an artist, the appointment is set for six weeks out; I interpret this to mean he’s incredibly popular and must be a gifted artist.  

The day I got the work done, the artist suggested we change the design up a bit and went on to explain why he thinks it would be better if we did it this (new) way.  I liked his sketch well enough.  "Okay", I say, "you're the artist."  A friend went with and held my hand.  Literally.  It hurt like hell.  Because of my dislike for needles, I couldn’t look.  But when it was done, I hated it.  Literally from the first moment I looked at it, I hated it.  On the wall in the shop, there was a saw with the words “Tattoo Removal” painted on it – I was tempted to use it!  My friend tried to console me over margaritas.  She didn’t say how horrible it looked, but I could see it in her face.  

It was still flip-flop season, but if I was going out with friends, or going to visit my parents, I’d wear closed-toe shoes.  When I did dare to venture out wearing flip-flops, I put a band aid over my ink.  When I finally decided to go out sans band aid, I found I would constantly turn that foot inward to hide the hideous and now permanent blue blob that graced my body.  My self-consciousness over having a tattoo was now equal to the embarrassment I felt over this newest one.

The “artist” tried to correct it by adding some white ink and lightening it up.  It didn’t really help much.  And by now, hiding my foot was habit.

Within a matter of months, I decide to have it removed using laser treatments.  For a cost of more than three times what I paid for the tattoo, they think they can forever rid my body of the blue blob.   Five treatments later and that thing is STILL on my foot. I signed up for five more.  And that thing is STILL on my foot. 

Tired of the pain and suffering I was enduring with the laser removal treatments (not to mention the after-shocks and the blistering), I decided to look for a cover-up artist and see if I couldn’t make it all better.  Another friend knew a guy.  While my love of Mickey and Journey has not diminished, I wanted something totally different – to erase the memory of that ink stain forever.  

We agreed on a design (I’ve always loved the ocean) and he did a fantastic job!  I loved it and had zero problems stepping out in my flip flops (just not around family or close friends). 

But then … most of the ink came off (it’s not supposed to do that!).  He touched it up … and it faded again!  The laser treatments had damaged my skin beyond what either he or I could imagine.  

With his third, and likely final, attempt, we timed it so that I could live in my flip flops for a couple of weeks, hopefully giving the ink a better chance to stick without a shoe rubbing against it.  It’s already peeling, but at least there’s more ink left than the previous two attempts.  And at least what’s there is better than before, if a bit faded. 

During this time, I’ve gone out several times – both with friends who CrossFit and friends who don’t.  I called one of my (non-CrossFitter) friends and forewarned her about my tattoo and told her how self-conscious I was feeling; her response, “I can’t wait to see it!  And don’t worry about what others think!  I bet no one will even say anything!”  And guess what?  No one said a word.  Instead, they were busy admiring the shade of nail polish I had on my toes (it's a lovely shade of lavender, yes?)! 

That’s not entirely true – my CrossFit friends all agreed the tat is cool. 

I recognize that people have opinions about tattoos and those opinions can be very strong.  And they may even have opinions about people with tattoos (I know I sure do – when I see someone with a tat on their face or when I see a particularly artful piece.)  I recognize they’re not for everyone.  But I kinda like mine.

I’ve found that with age, I’ve become more adventurous.  I’ve found a confidence that eluded me for the better part of my life.  I’m becoming more comfortable, literally, in my own skin.

In a couple of weeks, we're hosting a family get-together, a pool party.  And you know what?  I'm going to wear my flip flops.

Just Write!

It began in 1971, first grade, my friendship with Amy.  In my memory, she had a head of beautiful, long, thick hair; mine was short and stringy and if I dared to grow it long, it looked even stringier, if that were possible.  We shared a love of horses and she had a pony; there was no room for a pony on our ¾ acre lot.  Her mom was the Art teacher in school; I loved Art – I think the only time outside of PE we weren’t made to sit still, because you know, I was 7.  She was smart; I wasn’t exactly in the top 10 percent, yet.  And there was something about her that drew people to her; already at age 7, I was the proverbial wallflower.  She doesn’t remember this, but Amy was popular – everyone liked her – and I liked her.  

It was a sad day when she moved to Austin, a mere 60 miles up the road, the summer between our 3rd and 4th grade years.  I missed my best friend.

We wrote to each other regularly, maybe even weekly.  The US Postal Service our only viable way of connection because long distance phone calls were too expensive, so said my parents.  I anxiously checked the mailbox every day, waiting to hear from my friend.  Upon receiving the coveted letter addressed to me, with her return address on it, I wrote back as quickly as I could.  What exactly those letters contained, I can’t say; I suppose at the age of 9 and being girls, bubble gum flavors and puppies might have been among our favorite topics.  And boys.  Maybe boys.

At some point (I don’t really know when), the frequency with which we wrote lessened. 

I remember visiting my sister when she was attending college in Austin and passing an elementary school I envisioned Amy attending (though I knew her school was on the other side of town).  I remember being in college, at the same university as my sister, and thinking of Amy as I passed that same elementary school.  Later in life, when I worked in Austin, my office just a few miles from that same school, and I thought of Amy.

By the time I was in college, the letters had stopped.  Here I was, in the same town where Amy finished her childhood, she was a mere 30 minutes away in Georgetown.  We both had the means to see each other, but we were each in the process of finding our young adult selves.  And so, we lost touch.

Fast forward to 2015.  I’m active on Facebook (way more than I should be!) and that excitement that I felt going to the mailbox every day returns in a flash - in pops a friend request from who else, but Amy!  I was shocked, thrilled, giddy, and I dare say, tears welled up in my eyes.  We chatted here and there (she tells me she never forgot me, I tell her I thought of her every year on our birthdays, which are one day apart), and of course, kept up with current stuff through FB.  But I want to know everything – since 1974 – everything about her life.  She’s back in Austin (and has been for quite some time) and I’ve returned to our hometown.  Again, a mere 60 miles separates us.

A few weeks ago, she says she’s coming for a visit!  Her dad used to be the pastor at a small church that is literally a block from my hairdresser’s shop.  Amy is an English and Literature professor and is authoring her next book, which begins with her time in the area.  She wants to visit the church and asks if I can meet her there.  As luck would have it, I had an upcoming appointment with my hairdresser and we arranged to meet that same day.  And so, it was set.  After 44 years, we are about to be reunited.

As the day drew near, I got a little nervous.  Maybe it was giddiness.  Maybe it was excitement.  But it was happening!  I couldn’t believe it.  I share my (low-level) anxiety with a mutual friend, someone we went to elementary school with, who encourages that I am still the person who, like when we were children, cherishes friendships fiercely and Amy will see that.

When I arrive at the church, it is locked.  I scan the parking lot and try to decide which of these cars belongs to Amy, which one looks most like Amy.  I decide none of them do.  A quick text tells me she’s in the office.  I smile.  But I’m shaking on the inside.  This is happening!  When we see each other, she interrupts her conversation with the pastor and gives me a huge hug.  She, her friend Caroline and I toured the church grounds and spent a lot of time in the chapel.  The parsonage, where Amy lived with her family, has long since been torn down and replaced with something more modern (circa 1980 or so); we stand on what we believe must have been the foundation of her home and remember the trees, the view of the cemetery from her front porch, and where she kept her pony.  Everything seemed much bigger back then.

We decide on lunch at a local comforty-food type of place in New Braunfels.  I ask if we should drive by our old elementary school and excitedly, Amy says yes – though she doesn’t remember the way.  I drive the route our bus used to take, in hopes that it will spark her memory and it does – she remembers the old railroad track we used to cross under and the multitude of cement plants/quarries along the way. 

And the car they were traveling in – not Amy’s car at all; it belonged to her friend Caroline.

Comal Elementary is now home to a Catholic High School.  As luck would have it, school is out and we’re able to roam the campus.  We stood in the parking lot, remembering the structure as we knew it in 1^st grade (or rather, as we tried to remember it) and the changes made to it between our 1^st and 2^nd grade years when the radical “open-concept” was introduced in public schools.  The bus line has remained in place since we were 7-year-olds making the huge step into the big yellow school bus.  We stood on the playground and talked of the death traps that came in the form of playground equipment back in the day and the splinters which were embedded on various body parts thanks to them; the merry go round and the jungle gym being our favorites, followed closely by the see saw and swings. 

We talked of the trauma of moving at the age of 9 and how another teacher, rather than her own parents, was the one who told a very confused little girl that she would be moving over the summer.  Of course, we agreed, a lot had changed about the school and naturally, everything looked “smaller” to us now.

Over lunch, we shared a small portion of our own life’s highlight (lowlight?) reel.  I had no idea academia (as a profession) could be such a shark tank and my heart hurts to know the struggles she had while taking care of her aging and ill parents.  My bumps and bruises came in the form of past relationships.  She tells me she never forgot me.  We finished our time together with a trip to Naeglin’s Bakery – because – it’s Naeglin’s (and if you’re ever in New Braunfels, it’s one of those things you simply must do!).  I left her with this:  I wanted to share more with her – I wanted to know more about her.  What I meant was, I want to get to know her again and know all about what’s made Amy who she is today, and I want to reignite our friendship.

Her friend Caroline said she could see, just from a few hours, why we were friends all those years ago.  We still have a lot in common, though in other ways, we’re very different.

It was during a recent chat that I asked Amy more about her mom, who passed just a couple of years ago (shortly after Amy found me on Facebook).  She shared with me, a manuscript she’d written, an autobiographical piece which is not yet published.  In 212 pages, she delves into a cherished friendship, her career, her ancestry, time spent caring for her parents, then grieving her mother’s and best friend’s passing, all woven together with her own poetry.  This gives me an even bigger glimpse into a long-unanswered question:  who is Amy and what is she doing now?   If this is a teaching moment, then I am the student; and I’m learning about my friend. 

My friend, the English and Literature professor, the author, has lit a passion in me for writing.  One that I felt as we corresponded throughout the years and one that I pursued in the form of a Journalism degree.  One that I never really had an opportunity to use in my social work career.  But one I was inspired by whenever I read a John Grisham novel.  "Just Write!" says Amy.  And so I am.  Together, she and John Grisham have inspired me to begin my blog.