Tattoo MeStefanie Wilder Taylor
About a year ago I was at a school fundraiser standing around the fresh baked goods table surrounded by a group of fellow moms. We were talking about school, teachers, future fundraisers, you know the usual. I sort of mentioned in the middle of it that I wanted to get a tattoo. Cue horrified stares. What? I couldn’t understand what I’d said that was so shocking. Was it my age?
“Why would you possibly want to do something like that?” asked one of the moms, a Jewish mom. I’ll call her Sue Rubenstein. I figured maybe Sue’s reaction had to do with the fact that Jews can’t get buried in a Jewish cemetery if they have a tattoo. But could Sue have really been that concerned with the location of my final resting place?
“I just want to do something a little edgy, something to balance out the minivan and three kids I’ve acquired over a short period of time. I feel like when people see me coming they can’t see past the mom angle. I’m scared I look boring.”
Sue looked relieved. “Oh my gosh. You don’t have to get a tattoo to give yourself some edge! I have a much better idea. Just get a great scarf! I have like twenty of them that I constantly switch out depending on my mood! Get yourself a colorful one, you’ll feel much edgier.”
Obviously, she missed the point.
I’ve always thought tattoos were cool. When I was a little girl the type of people one mostly saw with tats were Harley guys, sailors and/or people who had served jail time but I liked the way they looked and dreamed of getting an anchor right on my arm. Of course that was forty years ago and oh how times have changed. Tattoos are clichéd. Once the territory of malcontents they are now covering every Ivy League college campus in the country. But I still wanted one.
When I told Jon he said absolutely not. He said it was ridiculous. “Why would you do that now? You’ve gone this long without one. Tattoos are hack. Remember what happened with your belly button ring?” Sure, when I got a belly ring I had to take it out after a week. But it wasn’t because I changed my mind, it was because it hurt like a bitch.
“Well if I was going to get a tattoo anyway,” I said to him a few months later, “where on my body could I get it? My arm?”
“Oh God no! That’s so visible.”
“My ankle then?”
“I guess so. But I don’t want to talk about it because you’re not going to do it.”
Two weeks ago I texted Jon this picture from a tattoo parlor on Melrose.
“I am.” I texted back.
“But I’m just getting it on my ankle.”
“I know you are not really doing that.” But I was. Obviously not that tattoo! I figured anything less than that would be downright attractive to him.
“I really hope you are joking.”
When I got home that evening I showed the kids and they loved it! And then Jon came home a few hours later and I showed him the damage.
“It’s not that bad I guess.”
I know. What was he going to say?
I should also mention that the whole tattoo experience was captured on tape for my new show Parental Discretion which starts airing October 10. And no, I didn’t actually cry.
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