Yeah, you read that right. I recently got a tattoo. And I know what you’re thinking.

What did you get?

I’ll tell you by the end. Saying what your tattoo idea is often sounds kind of dumb, so, I’m reluctant to tell you the way expectant parents are reluctant to tell you what they’re thinking of naming their child. My friend told me that literally after he told me what he was naming his son and I said, “really?”

It may seem like a sudden, random choice but it’s not. I wrote a post about it in August of 2018. To quote myself, “it would have to satisfy two criteria. One, it would have to have meaning. Two, it would have to look cool.” I think it satisfied at least one, perhaps both. But having gotten one, I don’t think that’s the point anymore.

Rest assured that my mother is currently rolling over in her grave but, frankly, she could use the exercise.

As I said in my previous post, she thought that tattoos were low class. In her experience, they probably were. I’m guessing that the people she ran into with tattoos in Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania weren’t the most erudite folks. I remember a guy at an internship I had who drove a forklift and had a naked woman tattooed from his shoulder to his elbow and he always wore sleeveless shirts.

Tattoos were for sailors, indigenous Pacific Islanders, bikers, and Bay Area punk bands.

They’re much more mainstream. They’re not just swallows and anchors and hearts with the word “Mom” in them. (Be thankful, I didn’t get that one, Jene. Keep spinning.)

A friend of mine said he used to call his knuckle tattoos “everlasting job stoppers.” Now he lectures on tech issues all over the world. I used to work with a woman at my pharmaceutical advertising job who had F-U-C-K tattooed across her knuckles. A fair amount of the parents I see in Park Slope picking up their kids from day care have them.

So, what did you get?

Not yet.

I was always paralyzed by the fear of choosing the right thing. I mean this would be on my body for the rest of my life. People with a faded barbed wire tattoo around their bicep should certainly serve as warning signs, right?

My renewed interest started when I saw a brand new studio open two blocks from my apartment. It looked cool. I walked in with my dog and asked the woman about it. How do I get one? What should I get? What’s the process?

I told her what I wanted: a Rochester, NY Flower City symbol that also incorporated a broken infinity symbol that also had lilacs behind it. (I thought this was a relatively new idea but, sure enough, I mentioned it in 2018).

She looked at me, “okay, so you’re doing what a lot of people do with their first tattoo. You’re throwing everything into it. Just pick one.”

Good advice.

Seriously, what did you get?

Relax, it’s not a big deal. I don’t want to build it up or you’ll be disappointed.

She asked if I wanted to book something but I said no, I’m not sure if I’m ready.

And I wasn’t. Here’s my embarrassing admission: I booked an appointment two years ago to get one at a studio in Williamsburg. I put down a deposit of $100. But when the day came, I was too scared to go through with it. So, I called said sorry for wasting your time. (And I squandered $100. Keep spinning, Mom.)

But I started looking at her portfolio and checking out some other studios in the neighborhood and decided that I was going to go through with it.

I picked what I wanted.

Which was….?

Shut up.

And I went with an artist named Kae at Hand of Glory in Park Slope.

If you know me, you won’t be surprised when I tell you that I was nervous as hell. I was sitting in the lobby of the studio looking at all the flash designs on the wall, all of which were traditional tattoos.

What the hell am I doing? This was going to be on my body for the rest of my life. Why does anyone do this? More to the point, why am I doing this? You know what? I can walk. I can just walk right now. It doesn’t matter.

But isn’t that cowardice? To walk for a second time?

Sure, but is fear of cowardice reason to do something I might regret for the rest of my life?

The artist showed me her design on her iPad (and she uses a stylus with it, keep spinning, Steve). It wasn’t exactly what I had in my mind’s eye but I don’t think I had anything in my mind’s eye. I had her alter the handle just a little bit and then she printed out. After a little arm hair shaving, I was looking at the stencil on my arm in the mirror and I just thought it looked cool. And I thought, to hell with it, I’ve wanted to do this for a while. Let’s do this.

As she worked and I saw it coming together, my fear went away and I just thought, “huh, look at me… getting a tattoo.”

I really like taking relatively low stakes occurrences and attributing grand life lessons to them. Ready? Here goes.

I’ve been worried about “the rest of my life” for most of my life. In high school it was about college. In my twenties, it was when my friends were getting married and starting families. When I got an STI, I thought it would be with me for the rest of my life. When I bought my apartment, I thought it could be a mistake that stuck with me for the rest of my life. Even when I adopted my dog Sapphire, I was worried that it could be a mistake that I remembered for the rest of my life.

But in every one of those situations – the ones that I embraced and the ones that I ran from – the rest of my life kept coming. And my life never exploded.

It’s obviously ridiculous to say, “You know what? I should have gotten married and had kids. After the tattoo, I see that now. Man, this thing has made me wise.”

Maybe I’m just tired of letting fear dictate all my choices, especially when “the rest of my life” gets shorter and shorter and I want to enjoy it.

So, what did you get?!

You ready?

Fucking yes.

A french press.

Really?

Yeah.

Like the coffee maker?

Yeah.

Okay. That’s… a choice.

Thanks.

Can I see it?

Sure.

In a random coincidence my friend Aaron asked me if I had any on the day that I was getting one. I told him what I was getting, “Is that stupid?” I asked.

“I mean, they’re all stupid, it just matters if you like it.”

I don’t do a lot of stuff just for myself where I can say I don’t care what anyone thinks, probably because I always care. Not this time.

I remember from my previous post, a friend of mine read it and commented, “it doesn’t have to be important, sometimes it’s just because it’s your body and you feel like owning it.”

As far as I’m concerned, it satisfies my criteria. It’s cool and it has meaning. It means the rest of my life is happening right now and it’s scaring me less than it used to.