One of my best friends got married Sunday. She was the first of my close group of high-school girl friends “down the tubes,” as her mother so delicately put it. Mom was obviously handling things very well.
While the mother of the bride dealt with her pre-wedding jitters, my own mom was having a separate subtle freak-out about my recent lifetime commitment. She kept trying to cover my bare arms, despite the tropical temperature — a fruitless attempt to cover the brightly colored tattoo that had been inked into my left arm three days before.

My tattoo was the end result of years of thought and nerves and desire. I was proud of it and wanted it to be seen by everyone.
And no, the needles didn’t hurt — that much.
My roommate, who got matching swallows tattooed on her chest several months ago, describes her relationship with her tattoos as a love affair. I feel the same way about mine. The arc of its development mimics that of any intimate relationship.
I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for years. During high school, I had daydreams about what sort of design I wanted, the same way most girls ponder their future first love: kisses, white dresses, cakes and needles in my arm. Tres romatique.

As I got older, my personality solidified, and so did my tattoo ideas. I became enamored with classic designs: Picture 1920s-era sailors and side-show circus freaks with hearts inked on their chests and pin-up girls caressing their forearms. I liked the bold simplicity of the designs. I also admired the sentiment behind the tattoos. These were people who were not afraid to express their individuality in an era when body art was considered crass and risqué.
I found my inspiration more than a year ago, while perusing “1000 Tattoos,” produced by the well-known art book publisher Taschen. In addition to hundreds of pictures both new and old, it has dozens of pages of classic tattoo designs. The drawing I found was a swallow swooping down over a rose, created by “Tattoo Peter” in the 1950s. It was simple, pretty and perfect. I had just reached the infatuation stage.

The crush lasted for several months. But as with all new relationships, its once charming quirks started to wear on me. Fortunately, unlike people, tattoo designs can be changed, at least before they are inked. I tweaked the design until it was perfect. Things were getting serious.
We had our ups and downs. I wanted it. I didn’t. I wanted it again. I just couldn’t make the commitment.

The final push came just before Christmas. My roommate got her swallows done. They were gorgeous and I was jealous. I felt like I was staring from the sidelines in a flouncy, teal taffeta dress: always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Her tattoo artist, Julien at Primal Body Piercing on East 13th Avenue, did a fantastic job. He is also an ordained minister — how appropriate.
In the days leading up to my appointment, I suffered from massive anxiety. I couldn’t sleep. When I did sleep, I dreamt about it. On “The Day,” however, I felt nothing but excitement.

Julien, his assistant and I worked on the design for nearly an hour, redrawing it until it was exactly what I wanted. I almost felt bad for my pickiness, but rescinded when I thought about the fact that this was forever. I didn’t want my “baby” to be anything less than perfect.
I cringed when I heard the first whir of the tattoo machine and turned my face away, bracing myself for heart-jarring pain.

It didn’t come. Within minutes, I was carrying on a normal conversation and watching with fascination as the tiny needles poked ink below the surface of my skin. The sensation felt exactly as you might expect it to: a slow, vague burn of tiny needles repeatedly piercing my skin, almost like being snapped by a rubber band. It was almost anti-climactic.
Afterwards, I sat immobile in the lobby, mourning my once unmarred flesh. I had thoroughly thought out my decision, but the tangibility of it brought the permanence home.
Fortunately, that phase was short-lived, quickly replaced by indignation when a co-worker asked if I knew how much it would cost to get laser removal surgery. Would you ask a newlywed how much a divorce would cost? I think not. But it emphasized the point that I had done this for no one but myself.
My tattoo is an expression of my individuality. It is a part of who I am — not just now, but forever.
Dear Tattoo,
I know they say you’re trashy, and that I’ll never get ahead with you in my life. I can’t promise you there won’t be up and downs; that I won’t get mad or say things I’ll regret. But we were made for each other, beautiful. I love you, sweetface tattoo baby.