Sunburn

A week ago last Wednesday, the day I had been waiting for since August finally arrived, and I got to drive to Cambridge and get my arm tattooed. It was an okay day for it- the sun was out, it wasn't too cold, and I didn't really mind being by myself, surprisingly. I always think I will prefer to have someone with me for long car rides, but the truth is, I usually end up wanting to be alone once the crankiness sets in and I get tired of talking. I was glad no one was available to go with me, actually, or I might have lost a friend in the process. Plus, I left early, I barely ate anything all day, and I would have felt weird smoking in my own car with someone else there. Plus, asking someone to sit on a bench, feeling like a weirdo is a big favor to ask. I did it for Mike, when he got tattooed there, sitting silently for hours like patience on the monument. It was kind of awful, and then I had to drive back to Pittsfield in rush hour with a guy who didn't like me that much anymore.
I got there early, of course, like I always do, so I had some time to catch my breath before I had to sit in the chair and get stabbed for hours. I talked with the mom of a kid who was getting some kind of shamrock/football jersey number thing on his ankle (probably the biggest Masshole cliche of them all) about what my tattoo meant, because it is, understandably, hard to understand why I would get a tattoo of a squid fighting a whale. "I've had a hard year," I said, "A whale of a year, and I think of myself as the squid, wrapping all my tentacles around it and taking it down."
She smiled, amused, and didn't seem to really get the why and wherefore of it, but I didn't expect her to, really. A tattoo is public and private at the same time. I could have just said that I wanted it because it looks cool and left it at that, but I never go with the easy answer. I always overexplain when I could just keep my mouth shut.  
Once Erick, my tattoo artist, actually got me in the chair and started, it wasn't so bad. I've gotten tattoos before, but this one is the biggest, and I was in the chair for four hours, minus a few breaks. Erick did the entire thing in one sitting, from the outline to color, so I got to leave that day with the finished product, not just the rough sketch. He must have done the full job because I sat there so nice and still, not making any noise. I always thought I have a decent pain threshold, and I guess it's actually true.
Getting tattooed is a little more intimate than other services you pay for, moreso than getting your hair done, or getting a bikini wax, even. You are trusting a professional to put something permanent on your body, something meaningful that everyone will see. You have to almost form a false friendship with this person that only lasts a few hours, and only picks up again if you need a new piece. I still felt weird, and girly and silly, and like I was seventeen years old, but I felt something else this time, an electricity coursing through me while the needles were stabbing me over and over. I had to think, in order to sit calmly and not wince every time the needles pierced my arm, that this made me feel alive, that this was a good pain, a pain that was productive, and worthwhile. After all the just-below-the-surface pain, the ache that had no name that I've felt for more than half a year, this pain of getting a beautiful piece of art stitched into my skin felt great. It was because it was my choice, and I was in control of it. Now, I have something I get to keep forever, barring my arm getting chopped off. In an age of my life where nothing feels permanent anymore, where the list of people I love and who still love me changes from month to month, and sometimes day to day, this feels grounding. Plus, it's something I did just for me.