Book of Odds: The $64,000 Question

As you may or may not be aware, I do a weekly blog for the website Book of Odds. Below is this week’s offering

So, are you gonna get a tattoo for your daughter?

I’ve paid somewhere in the neighborhood of $800 to be written on permanently. I’ve spent what would be the equivalent of a day’s work sitting in various artists’ chairs, smelling that antiseptic aroma you should always smell when getting inked up, listening to the drone of a needle as it etched things I wanted to keep sacred on my skin. I’ve done this to pay homage and now, for the first time, I just feel sort of done with it. You’d think the birth of my first child would be a tattoo no-brainer—especially considering I’m seven deep already—but it’s not.

I always said that I would stop getting tattoos when I had found whatever it is I was looking for. Of the seven I have, more than a few can be attributed to the need to pick myself up out of some mood or other. I like tattoos regardless of mood, but can say honestly that the intent of some of these scrawlings probably falls somewhere in the vicinity of self-mutilation.

I’m loath to say I regret getting any of the tattoos I have; partially because that would be an admission of the knuckleheadery of youth and partly because it’s just not true. I like my tattoos. I’m less thrilled with their placement. Tattoos I can see at any given moment tickle me much less than they used to. When I wanted to make certain kinds of pronouncements to myself and others, they were perfect. But now that the nature of pronouncement has changed, now that I’ve gotten a bit more circumspect with what I offer to the world in the way of personal presentation, a few tattoos just seem out of place. When I reach or stretch or type, I notice my left forearm; I see the appendage of a dude I’m not quite in sync with anymore. Even worse, there are times when I look at other similarly-tattooed people and wonder: What the hell were we thinking?

To give some credence to the knucklehead trope, I can say my theory was half right: Having landed on the path I’m on, I don’t necessarily feel compelled to hit the parlor as I once did. What I didn’t know then is that the person who no longer feels compelled to add to this array would be less-than-pumped about the collection of art on his left forearm.

I’m just a different cat now. I have a few moments where, admittedly, I feel cool and dig my work—don’t let anyone lie to you: the “cool” factor is a lot of the appeal—but increasingly, I feel like the dude holding some other dude’s tattoos until that other guy gets back. Whatever my headspace was previously, my current state of mind doesn’t lend itself to visible tattoos. My shoulders and upper arms? Cool. But as I’ve begun to frown upon opportunities for people who don’t know me like that to know me like that, I’ve begun mulling what to do.

All things considered, the decision seems to fall between three absurd options…

Continue reading at Book of Odds