Ramblings at 3 a.m. Funny thing is, we didn’t even go to the beach today.
Permanence and the parent-child gap.
It is 3 a.m. in the morning, and I am terrified of going to the beach with my family today. It’s not that I’m scared of the ocean, or I’m worried about getting sunburn, or anything like that.
I got a tattoo last December, and I’m afraid that somehow, someway, my mother is going to see it and then I will be dead.
I distinctly remember a conversation I had with her as she was driving me to the airport this past January. We were talking about the fact that I got my ears double-pierced last last spring without telling her (something I did again this past spring). She was telling me that I shouldn’t do anything crazy with my appearance, but that the piercings weren’t so bad, just, y’know:
“Don’t ever get a tattoo.”
She had then gone on about why I shouldn’t get a tattoo, but I don’t remember her reasons. Probably the usual schpiel about how they fade and warp through time, how they might not mean to me later what they mean to me now, yes yes yes of course emphatic nod.
All this, while the ink on my back was still drying (figuratively).
So ya see, a month or so before this conversation happened, I had been in the Body Electric tattoo parlor on Melrose getting a poem by Samuel Beckett etched onto my back. I’ve wanted this tattoo since I was a freshman in high school, after stumbling upon the text somewhere on the ~*Internet*~, and I had finally worked up the nerve to go through with the idea, despite the fact that I despise needles and don’t generally gravitate toward activities that involve voluntary pain.
My friend Katrina went with me, but the difference was that she had told her parents about her tattoo before embarking to Body Electric with me. Her parents, in particular her mother, had objected to the idea, but oh well, my money my body my rules, bitches! And now I guess they just deal with it when she struts around the house with Yeats between her shoulder blades.
I, on the other hand, didn’t know how much money a tattoo was going to cost even as I was taking the Metro to Body Electric, and had no idea how I was going to broach the subject with my parents, if ever (whoops). And to this day, whenever I think about the idea of my mom ever finding out that I have a tattoo, my stomach clenches a little and my throat seizes up the littlest bit. It’s at the point where I pack tshirts and modest dresses for when I go home so whatever I throw on, I will keep my left shoulder blade under cover.
Seriously though, should she see French script spilling behind a spaghetti strap one day, what could she do about it?
(Image: by Jenny aka charleskinbote)