I Am Now an Official Bad@ss.

I have wanted a tattoo since I was thirteen. Back then it was going to be either a gecko or unicorn, so I’m really glad my parents threatened to kick me out of the house if I ever got a tattoo while under their roof. Yes, I took their threats seriously – you would too, if you knew my parents. It’s called respect, kids (see, I am a good influence in spite of myself). Anyway, I waited like the paragon of virtuous patience that I am, convinced that as soon as I had my own apartment that purple unicorn tattoo would be mine.  Ah, youth.

Enter real life: bills I couldn’t keep on top of, bills, and more bills. Two layoffs in two years. Credit card debt accumulating while floating my expenses between jobs. Finally biting the bullet and working at Starbucks to supplement my part-time piano teaching gig through grad school. Alcoholism, then rehab. More unemployment, then under-employment for a long time. Engagement. Wedding. Honestly, unless you’re a recent MIT graduate, I don’t know how young adults nowadays can afford a decent tattoo. Maybe they just don’t eat. As much as I’d have liked to get a tattoo during this period, when it comes down to it and I have to make a choice between a month’s worth of groceries and a tattoo, my stomach wins the battle every time. See, I DO have a practicality streak running through my otherwise flaky blood. Either that or a very powerful appetite.

So I made it through both my twenties and rehab sans tattoo. I think I was the only one there without one…in fact, I’m surprised they let me in. Not to reinforce a stereotype, but my unblemished skin really stood out there.

This December I’m turning thirty, and I’m not freaking out about it as much as I’d anticipated, mostly because life continually improves with each passing year. So what if I came across seven stray grays and my freckles have multiplied exponentially? (They all have names. The gray hairs, not the freckles.)

Thus, for my thirtieth birthday – the year in which I’m supposed to magically transform into a full-on grown-up – I finally gave myself the present after which I’d been pining since puberty:

Haha, you thought it would be a unicorn, didn’t you? I have matured a little since the seventh grade.

Why this particular design? Well, I minored in art history in college, and I am a bit of an art freak, particularly gaga over the Pre-Raphaelites and art nouveau (shut up, you know you secretly love nineteenth-century art, too!). In fact, if you know a bit about art, you’d know that my header on this here website is taken from my favorite Pre-Raphaelite, John William Waterhouse.

Of course, I think I improved it with the addition of my cat. Every evil sorceress/goddess needs a cat, no? I could’ve taught Waterhouse a thing or two. Not Homer though, seeing as Circe turned men into swine…

So back to the tattoo – it’s based on the work of the great art nouveau artist Alfonse Mucha. Sure you know his work, he painted stuff like this:

Specifically, I wanted the poppies and swirliness of art nouveau. In fact, when I initially described what I wanted to the tattoo artist, I think I said, “I want purple flowers and swirlies.” She probably thought I was high.

Eventually, I was able to articulate what I wanted, and fast forward two weeks to today, when the bandage came off: I am thrilled.

I love how it peeks out of the top of my shirt. Except I can’t really see it unless I twist my neck around uncomfortably and look in the mirror. Tattoo-placement fail.

So now, I am finally branded forever with my favorite color of drug-inducing flower. Why didn’t I wait until my actual birthday in December? Well, I did have some foresight – the idea of wearing an itchy sweater over a fresh wound did not appeal to me. See, I do possess a semi-functioning brain. September is also, incidentally, my other birthday – sober three years on the thirtieth, bitchez! (I watch entirely too much Breaking Bad.)