To Tat or Not to Tat

(As in Tattoo, not Tattle)

When my kids were teens and they overheard hubby compliment a guy, “Like your tats, man,” they went into hysterics.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Dad trying to be cool.”

“Isn’t that the layman’s term, tats?” said hubby.

The kids continued their laughing trajectory.

Hubby and I are big appreciators of tattoos. We love the stories behind people’s body displays and the true artists who create these gems.

Did we ever consider getting a tattoo? The notion came and went. Like trying Volcano Boarding. (Yes, that’s a thing.) Instead, we have tattoo envy. We admire from afar. “That tat rocks.” Or, we’re embarrassed for the owner. “Oooh. That tat needs a refill.” (I mix metaphors. Sometimes a football player makes a home run.)

We are closeted tattoo yearners.

Growing up in the 70s, I only saw tattoos on motorcycle dudes or prison inmates (in the movies). By the time my kids were teens, tattoos were inked on 20% of Americans.

I don’t do shit because it’s cool. 1 in 3 people having tattoos doesn’t mean I’m on board. It’s only when I saw something inspiring that I considered the expensive, painful deed-- a waiter with his deceased sister’s name and birthdate tattooed on his arm, or an intricate scenery through a looking glass.

Over the years I wavered about tattoo-age. If my decision was on the NASDAQ my chart would not be a signal to buy. (Symbol-- TATT)

(My ages are the y-axis of the graph. I guess you can say TATT went public when I was twenty.)

It was about six years ago when hubby and I seriously considered making the investment—

“Aren’t we too old?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

“Okay. Where would you put yours?”

Hubby holds out his dad arms. “On my forearm,” he said.

“Would you tat a picture of me, baby?” I said.

“Mmm. Honestly? I’d do something simple.”

“Yeah. My face is complicated. And I look weird when I don’t smile.”

“What? You’re beautiful.”

“I have disgusted-look resting face.”

Hubby gave me a disgusted look at my self-deprecation. Then, “Where would your tattoo go?”

“Back of my neck. And when I want to show it off, I can just put my hair in a ponytail.”

“Nice,” hubby said. “Good plan.”

Hubby and I went “window shopping.” As he loaded Yelp for tattoo shops and reviews I spun into nostalgic mode, “Honey, remember when we lived in NYC and we’d go to the east village when we wanted Indian food and we could pick any restaurant on Sixth Street because they were all Indian?”

“And delicious,” said hubby.

“There should be Tattoo Row where very shop is better than the next.”

“There is. It’s called, the Internet.”

I’m so analog.

I hovered over hubby and Yelp. “There’s a place called, ‘Pagan Pigments; We do devilish designs.’ Maybe not.”

We gandered at YouTube videos of local places. Tech-nerd-hubby really wanted a shop with apps, computer connections...

“This one looks nice. ’Hank’s Tattoo Parlor,’” hubby said then opened the video.

“Who still uses the word ‘Parlor?’ It’s too brothel-y.”

Hubby perused anyway.

I watched the video over his shoulder. “Is that a dentist chair? Oy. Between the tool that sounds like a drill and the vinyl dentist chair I’ll be shaking in my Uggs. Next.”

“This one is in an upscale neighborhood.” Hubby said and opened their web site.

“Does that mean it’s cleaner than the ones who pay less rent?”

Hubby scanned their About Us Page. “Maybe they use microneedles that are smaller than a grain of sand and are made of tattoo ink encased in a dissolvable matrix.”

I gazed at my nerdy hubby. “I’ll let you call and ask.”

Hubby didn’t call. Once he’s home from work he’s done making calls and seeking pertinent information. I’m the one ordering the Thai food and asking for the bathroom key at the gas station. We know our roles on driving trips:

“I’ll pump the gas,” says hubby.

“I’ll get the key, use the bathroom first then watch the car while you take a piss.”

“And when I return the key, I’ll get some snacks.”

It’s a good marriage.

I find a tattoo place run by women. “The Real Housewives of Tattoos.” The shop is girly: pink walls, white couches and sparkly metallic side tables. The only thing that ruins the feminine feeling are the doctor tables in each artist station and the life size standing figures of LuAnn De Lesseps and Bethenny Frankel who both serve as canvases for the artists to practice. The video smash cuts to large notebooks decorated with eyelet and bling. They remind me of a girl in college who used to Bedazzle her notebooks. She became a B-list actress in Hollywood and when I once bumped into her at a Starbucks she pretended like she didn’t know me.

The blingy binders magically flip open. The pages are filled with various designs.

“Remember when we went looking at wedding invitations back when people used paper? I miss calligraphy and wasting trees.”

Hubby shrugged. He’s already forgotten. Once he discovered multi-tasking on a laptop— that was that. “Information Superhighway” was no longer science fiction or the fast lane on Interstate 18.

I reminisced to myself. That tangible announcement of the invitation meant my marriage would last forever. Same with a tattoo. Hmmm.

“Maybe there’s a store having a sale. Two Tats for One?”

Hubby then clicked on, “Ink Works.” His voice moved an octave higher, “This place is offering $50 tattoos for cancer awareness month.”

I chimed in, “Do they know that lead can cause cancer? Just sayin’.”

Hubby and I shot a look at each other. The realization hit us like a ton of ink.

“Dam, I didn’t even think of that. The ink has lead in it.”

“Shit,” he says.

“I’ve already had the big C. I avoid tuna and pencils.”

“Pencils are made of graphite.”

“I avoid tuna and 1970’s paint.”

“Let’s bail.”

“Where’s the TV remote?”

That was that. Volcano Boarding.

And so, friends, the stock plunged and the likelihood of me getting a tattoo went out of business.

In the comments below what would be the name of your tattoo store? (I was only able to think of a name for a manicure shop—Bloomingnails. And a dog salon— Groomingdales.)

What is your tattoo experience? Love ‘em? Leave ‘em? Have one? Twenty?