Okay, brave, I’m not. However, lately, I have been thinking about getting a tattoo. But here, art does not necessarily imitate life. For one thing I hate needles. For another, I hate needles. I also hate the sight of blood—particularly my own. Whenever I have to give blood, I hum a tune. I stare at the ceiling. I stare at the floor. I gaze at pictures on the walls of the lab, and do everything possible to take my mind off of what is happening.

Lately, I’ve started to scope out tattoo parlors as I try to get up the courage to ‘get inked.’ I have noticed other women also doing this. Obviously I am not the only middle-aged woman longing to walk on the wild side, but too chicken to do so. 

I thought that I might get a rose, or a butterfly or something else well — girlie. I also like those Chinese symbols. But since I don’t speak Chinese and can not be sure that my tattoo artist does either, perhaps I should stay away from something like that. After all, tattoos are — like forever —and I don’t want to risk constantly offending someone’s mother or ancestors. 

And I only want one. I certainly don’t want more than two. After all, some day I am going to be old and I don’t want to be a seventy-five year old woman with a hundred tattoos on each arm. Next, where to put it: on my shoulder, forearm, or ankle?  I know that I don’t want it on my breasts as that looks like that hurts. That’s also not the look I’m after. Alas, what happens to said tattoo once firm breasts start to sag is anyone’s guess. 

It couldn’t go on my right ankle as that’s the one that I fractured some years back. While faint, a scar, a plate and some screws will always remain from my adventures in break-dancing.  Decisions, decisions: who knew trying to decide on a tattoo would be so difficult?

A midlife crisis you ask? Perhaps. I’ve just always been fascinated with the idea of a tattoo ever since I saw one of my mother’s relatives sporting one back in the day. He got it when he was in the army. He said that many soldiers got them when they crossed the ocean for the first time. I often wondered what they did when they crossed back. He also wore an earring. So maybe they pierced things when they crossed back.

I don’t know. Maybe I should start simple by trying a toe ring again.  I remember the first time I put one on, it sprung off my toe and rolled across the floor. The second time, it sprang off again, but this time one of the cats chased after it — and sat on it. Maybe this time I will try one while my little kitty is napping. Or maybe I’ll simply settle for some blue nail polish or drink wine before it’s had time to breathe. After all, who says walking on the wild side has to hurt?