Tattoo you instead of me

If I were to be asked the question, "What is the one thing most people would be surprised to learn about you?" the answer I would come up with is that I have a tattoo.

Now, I know this seems like a weird answer. Usually people do not get tattoos and then attempt to hide them from the world. In fact, it is usually quite the opposite. My brother has three tattoos and loves to show them off. He is constantly pointing them out to people, letting them "ooh and ahh" over the artist's handy work, while being sure to give thanks for their praises and thinking of new ideas for future tattoos. He is addicted to getting inked. His most recent tattoo is his favorite; it's a portrait of our late papaw. I'm happy that he can be so proud of the permanent additions he has made to his body, but I on the other hand loathe the decision I made.

It was the summer of '99 and I had just graduated high school. The summer had started out with a bang for me and my friends, since there was only three months that stood between us and the freedom college promised. We spent the first month having drunken swim parties that ended in tears by the end of the night, as the realization of us going our separate ways creeped upon us. We made pacts and toasts, took road trips and had slumber parties. We watched movies upon movies and took so many pictures of each other doing these things that we alone probably kept the photo developing center in our town in business that summer. Eventually, the entertainment started to die down as we each had to start visiting our college of choice for orientations. Summer then turned into registering for classes and buying books, packing our bags and buying stuff for our dorm rooms. The anxiety level amongst my friends was sky high, and with only a few weeks remaining until we went off to college, one thing was for certain - we were officially bored.

It was around this time that a tattoo shop had opened up in one of the vacant spots located down town. We passed it every day as we made our routine cruise around the block to see if anyone was out and about. Up to this point, two of my friends had tattoos; Amanda had a small butterfly on her ankle and Jenny had a rose. The two of them were subjects of envy amongst the rest of us because we viewed tattoos as cool and the fact that their parents had let them get one before they turned 18 was awesome - and unbelievable. As for me, tattoos had never been a big deal to my family members since many of them had tattoos themselves. My papaw was covered in them from his days in the Navy and almost every man on my Dad's side of the family had our last name tattooed on them somewhere. I knew that my parents wouldn't mind if I got one, the hard part would be coming up with the nerve to do it.

One afternoon, my friend Dusty and I were trying to figure out what we could get into and we realized our options were limited. We had done all the swimming we could take, and our eyes were hurting from all the TV we were watching. Most of our friends were enjoying last minute vacations and were out of town. We were left to our own devices with the last weeks of summer ticking away. The two of us were laying in the sun by my pool when Dusty rolled over and looked at me through squinted eyes.

"What do you wanna do?" he asked.

"I have no idea."

"Wanna go to the mall?"

"We did that yesterday," I said.

"We could play cards," he suggested.

"Boooring."

"Okay, I've got an idea!" he suddenly exclaimed.

"What?"

"Let's get a tattoo!"

I started cracking up. "Are you serious?"

"Sure," he said. "Why not? We're both 18."

That was all the convincing I needed, so the two of us loaded into Dusty's car and headed downtown to the tattoo parlor. On the way there we discussed what we might get. I had no idea what I wanted, while Dusty figured he might get something to do with his astrological sign. Neither one of us knew anyone who had received a tattoo from the place, nor had we heard whether or not they did a good job. We were just excited to be getting tattoos.

It only took us about 10 minutes to get to our destination, so we parked and entered the shop. Examples of tattoos were displayed all over the walls; butterflies, hearts, dragons and Chinese characters. The walls that weren't covered were dingy and the floors needed to be mopped badly. The lighting in the place was dim, and it smelled like a generic pack of cigarettes. Looking back on things now, I should have just turned around and walked back out based on appearance alone, but I was determined to get inked. The guy behind the counter was covered in tattoos and his head was clean shaven. He looked greasy and intimidating and when he smiled most of his teeth were rotting.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked us.

"Uh, we want to get tattooed," I answered quickly.

"Do you have an idea of what you want?" We shook our heads no.

"How much you lookin to spend?"

The question of how much we would spend had not even came to my attention. I had very little money since I was saving up for school and I knew Dusty was in the same predicament. Dusty and I exchanged worried glances.

"Here's a better question," the tattoo guy interrupted our thoughts. "How much do you have on you?"

I opened up my purse and found that I had only fifteen dollars. Dusty had $20. The tattoo guy pointed over to the right wall to a group of tattoos.

"Those are the cheaps ones," he said. "Have a look."

Dusty was in luck and spotted his sign, Sagittarius, on the wall immediately, and quickly told the guy he wanted that one without another thought. I, on the other hand, had a more difficult decision to make. None of them looked cute enough for me to want to live with for the rest of my life, yet I didn't want to back out. This was going to be the last bonding experience for Dusty and I before we went off to college. It was important to me. I decided to suck it up and just choose one so I went with the best solution I could come up with. I closed my eyes and just pointed. My finger landed on a tattoo of a butterfly attached to Chinese writing.

"What does the writing mean?", I asked the man.

"I don't know. Fuck, kid. Butterfly, I guess!"

Reluctantly, my decision was made, and Dusty and I waited as each took our turn to get our stamp of friendship. I chose to place mine on my shoulder blade and he decided to have his put on his pelvic bone and both of our sessions took less than half an hour to complete. The pain was nothing like I expected, and the end results seemed satisfactory, so the guy charged us ten bucks each and we took off to show off our new tats.

For awhile, it was exciting to see my tattoo in the mirror, and I admired it constantly. Soon enough, I started to hate it. For one, it's very badly done. It looks as though I were inked by a five year old with a crayon, and calling it "jailhouse" is a nice way of putting it. Another thing is that it faded badly. I tried very hard to take care of it by keeping it moisturized and out of the sun as much as possible, but as the years have gone by it has diminished slowly by surely. As if it couldn't have gotten any worse by me choosing the most cliché tattoo ever, it know doesn't even resemble what it originally started out as. Now, it looks more like a small ink blob.

I have nothing against tattoos. I love seeing a tattoo that's really well done and I love hearing stories behind why a certain tattoo was selected. I think watching someone get a tattoo is relaxing, and I've been known to be attracted to inked guys. I will accompany my friends when they're getting them, and I love the show Miami Ink. I do not mind tattoos at all. I do, however, hate my tattoo. Since getting inked, I have gone through great lengths to keep my tattoo hidden. I check shirts to see if the strap is thick enough to cover it, and I will hardly cut my hair shorter than the location of my tattoo. I was at a bar not long ago, when my friend Morgan noticed it for the first time and asked me what it was. She was surprised by my reaction.

"Let me see it," she insisted.

"No way!" I protested.

After multiple attempts to get a glance, she gave up.

"I promise not to look, if it's that important to you," she later told me, and trust me, it is.

I realize there are some alternatives for getting this atrocity of mine taken care of. I have considered getting it removed, but that is too costly and it has been suggested that maybe I should just get it covered up with something I like better. Honestly, I can't think of anything I'd like enough to even cover up the horror I have. Something about my tattoo tells me that it's important that it stays. It's important to remind myself of the last summer before "adulthood" and my bonding experience with Dusty. It is important to remind myself of mistakes I've made and simple regrets I've taken on because of impulsive decisions. It's something permanent in a life where so many things are temporary. Like it or not, it's here to stay. And damn, it sure is ugly.

Tashina Savage would still love to know what the Chinese writing is on her back. If you think you could help her figure this out, please email her at sundaysgirl@gmail.com