To tattoo or not to tattoo. Why the question?

I have often been asked what on earth possessed me to start getting tattoos late into my 30’s.  The answer to that is multifaceted and pretty damn boring.  What ultimately matters is why I still do.  There is a life changing element to my tattoos other than me simply being a “late bloomer”. 

I had my first tattoo done at about the same time as I decided it was time to lose some serious weight.  I was in a pretty crappy place in terms of self-confidence and body image.  It’s a small tattoo but was the start of something much deeper and all encompassing.

Numbers 1, 2 and 3 all have some sort of meaning or symbolise something special to me (cheesy meanings perhaps, but relevant all the same).  I had numbers 4 and 5 done simply because I wanted them. And they were beautiful.  And it was good.

After No 1 I realised that people were not joking when they said this shit is addictive.  Less than year later I was back for No 2.  It was not enough.  I wanted bigger and better. 

The reality is though that getting tattoos – by talented artists, at any rate – is expensive.  I saved all my R5 coins for ages and eventually got No 3.  This one took 7 hours and, as I staggered out of the studio, nauseous and shaky, I thought maybe I was cured of the addiction.  Not so much as it turns out.  No’s 4 and 5 followed in rapid succession.

There are two parts of this addiction.  One is purely physical.  The tightening in my gut when I hear the buzz of the needle.  The surge of adrenalin when I feel the sharp burning sensation as the needle touches my skin.  Even writing this, I feel a tight knot of anticipation rising inside of me and my breathing becomes laboured. 

The other side of this addiction, however is purely emotional.  I am my biggest critic as far as my physical appearance is concerned.  I have never been a particularly self-confident woman, always hating the way this wobbled, or that jiggled.  Previously overweight and under-exercised, I decided to change things and ended up 20 odd kilos lighter and a demon in the gym.  All of that, however, means nothing without my art.  My body is now so much more than flesh, freckles and cellulite.  It is a canvass.  There are exquisite points of interest which I want to show off to the world.  This has not only changed my view of my own body but the way I face life.  Whatever.  It’s a fact. I am much more of a confident badass than ever before.  And they make me feel damn sexy. 

“What about when you are old and saggy?”.  Think about it for a second – my tigress will move and stretch and become even more languid and fluid.  As she should.  My butterflies and flowers will grow and change and perhaps even droop – as they do in nature – but they will still be beautiful.  My triskele will forever represent the circle of life and strength of the woman that I keep striving to be.

And one day – far into the future, the angels willing – when I lie on the slab, I hope that my stories, like bushman art in a cave, will tell a story worthy of the life I am living.

It is a personal choice.  One I cannot wait to do again.  And again. 

But that’s just my opinion.