So for the past four years of talking about wanting a tattoo, I expected it to actually happen in the way that some people expect to be princesses when they grow up. You can say with unwavering certainty that you're a princess to everyone around you, then trudge all the minimum wage jobs you're doomed to work at.
By the time I told my roommate I was definitely getting a tattoo, that meant I was kinda sorta serious about it, maybe in a few years, if that whole pain thing would go away. Or if I became a millionaire. Whichever came first. But then something weird happened. I made an appointment at the tattoo parlor. I was all here, let me throw $200 at you so I can feel gut wrenching pain, wheee!
On the day of the tattoo, I come home to my roommate a weeping, shrieking mess. The very idea of getting a flu shot sends me into shakes, and here I was, about to get a million and five flu shots, on top of the very real possibility of hepatitis C.
So my roommate and I get to the tattoo parlor, and trek down the stairs to an underground shop. Everyone around me has a million piercings, tattoos, and a faint aroma of smoke. Here I am, in my blond braids and sparkly eyeshadow, and I'm ready to bolt out of there like the place is on fire. I turn to my roommate. "I can't get a tattoo! People in motorcycle gangs get tattoos! Or people in punk rock bands!"
The voice of reason, my roommate tells me it'll be like giving birth, except with hopefully less screaming. It'll hurt, she says, but it's something you want. Here, have some chocolate.
Our apartment runs by the strict policy that chocolate makes everything better. I'm suspicious. I've never given birth before; for all I know, that pain wouldn't be worth it either. I'm that person who gets a cut on her finger and writhes around on her bed for an hour.
So even though I feel like I've just volunteered myself as tribute, I head over to the little room with the big, scary needles. My hands are giant puddles by now. I tell the tattoo artist that I'm a little nervous. He says he is too, that it's his first tattoo.
He's joking. I still want to do this:
The tattoo artist looks at me like I've swallowed an elephant. The sharp whirrrrr of the needle fills the room.
"There's no such thing as pain," he says.
Oh, great. I'm letting a crazy person stab me with needles.
"There are certain sensations that we try to label with pleasure, or pain. We want to be able to associate something with how we feel. But let me ask you this: hasn't the fear of pain always been worse than the pain itself?" he says.
I'm wondering if this guy thinks he's Eleanor Roosevelt. I'm trying to think of glorious examples where I felt like my body was about to shatter into a million pieces. My mind draws a blank.
"I guess not," I say meakly. I'm annoyed with myself that I've never broken a bone and felt real pain.
The needle approaches my skin. I hear the whir get louder. And then...
A pinch. It kind of tickles. It's no massage, but I don't feel like I'm gonna drop dead any second. The sharpness gets duller and duller. It's like my skin is getting drunk; it loses that ability to go "hey, listen. There are some needles poking at me...that's like, not healthy." By the time I have an om symbol on my back, my skin is so excited by it all, it's going "I want more!"
I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt at all. I wouldn't stick a needle in my back just for the fun of it. That's called
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