"My body is my journey and my tattoos are my story."
-- Johnny Depp
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| Tattoo machine and ink 10-27-14 |
My tattoo appointment started at 1 p.m. yesterday.
I didn't get home until after 3.
3 a.m., that is.
That's 14 hours. Some of that time was spent getting the design and stencil prepared, and I took a short break for dinner. But otherwise, I was in the chair, under the gun.
I totally dig hanging out at the tattoo shop -- I dig the vibe, the artists, the conversation, the music, the atmosphere -- all of it.
I even dig the pain. For me, the pain of a tattoo is pain that makes sense. I understand this pain. It's pain with purpose and a cause that I can grasp logically.
To a point, tattoo pain is strangely pleasant for me.
To a point.
But after the 12 hour mark or thereabouts, it didn't feel so quite good anymore.
I got a rather large rib piece, and by about 1 a.m. my skin pretty much felt like raw hamburger. I would have sworn my tattooer, Robin, was inking directly onto my ovaries. She promised that she wasn't. But still.
Also, I don't have much extra flesh on my ribs, and a tattoo needle right on the hip bone and the rib bones is less than pleasant.
But I did it. I made it through.
I always feel proud when Robin tells me I "sat like a beast" and am "a badass motherfucker." I love it when she tells me she has clients -- big, burly tough guys -- who can't take even a fraction of the pain that I can.
It's not a skill that's good for much except getting great tattoos.
But at least it's good for one thing.
