My Dad always told me to never bring home a boy with an earring, a motorcycle or a tattoo. Of course, my first husband had two out of the three, but I digress. When I was in high school only bad boys had tattoos. Girls, you know the type, those irresistibly hot guys that wore leather, drove motorcycles, and who you would never consider bringing home to your parents. Tattoos just didn’t exist in the world of a good catholic girl from the ‘burbs.
Flash forward 20+ years and tattoos are everywhere.
I got my first tattoo at the brink of turning 30 years old. I was in Florida, visiting my dear friend Susan, for New Year’s. And it was not just any New Year’s, but the big one baby, the turn of the century, a new millennium. On January 1, 2000, having survived the hoopla of Y2K, a group of us went to a flea market. It was at that flea market that I made the split decision to get a tattoo. I felt a tattoo was the perfect way to mark a new beginning for me. I was looking forward to a year full of great adventures….turning 30 years old, a month long trip to India & Nepal, and dating again after nursing a broken heart for the previous six months.
It has been 10 years since that first tattoo and I currently have 10 tattoos. And I have no regrets. I love my ink. Each and every tattoo has special meaning to me. They are indelible mini works of art which are as much a part of me as my black hair or freckles.
I’ve accepted the fact that there will always be people that will have pre-conceived notions about me based on my tattoos. I have had guys tell me that they aren’t interested in dating me because of my tattoos. And ironically, just as many guys who want to date me because of my ink. This fact just makes my life easier. It’s an easy way of weeding out the bad eggs because I’m not interested in dating someone that isn’t willing to accept me for who I am. And at the moment, I am a girl who loves tattoos.
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