I got my first tattoo when I was nineteen: a small roman numeral IV on my left wrist. My dad took me to the shop, and it took about twenty whole minutes to complete. I’m not going to sit here and act like it was not an extremely epic moment in my life, because that would be false. Since that precious moment five years ago, I have accumulated around eight more pieces of ink, including a sleeve that takes up three-fourths of my arm.
Internally, nothing major has transpired in the course of those five years. Externally, it’s the opposite.
For whatever reason, no matter what revolutionary changes are taking place, no matter what city or country or time period we’re in, people will always find a way to make other peoples’ bodies their business.
Apparently, my personal choices directly affect those around me, especially the elderly. This old ass guy came up to me AT MY PLACE OF WORK and told me that if I was his daughter he would kill me, and then forever be disappointed by the fact that I ruined my body. Another gentleman felt the need to actually invade my space and take hold of my arm while explaining how hideous I was for having tattoos.
Is it anyone’s business that I am quite healthy, college educated, fiscally responsible, employed, and an overall kind person? No. But what the fuck planet are you from if you think that touching my body while insulting it is somehow less of problem than the permanent additions I chose to make to it?!
Being a human being with visible tattoos, I guess it is totally appropriate for people to ask me personal questions, constantly.
Did that hurt? Why did you get that? Does this symbolize something? Are you going to get more? Do you like, only date guys with tattoos? Do your parents hate you? What do you wear to work? Should I get a tattoo? What should I get?
Since I’m obviously on one right now, I’ll answer these. Yes, a needle was going in and out of my body for over an hour, it was painful. I got this tattoo because I wanted to. No, it doesn’t symbolize one single thing. I don’t give a shit if a guy has tattoos or not, and the guy I would choose to date wouldn’t give a shit that I do, either. My parents love and support me in every way. I wear clothes to work. And hello, I AM NOT THE FUCKING AMBASSADOR OF TATTOO TOWN. I don’t know anything about you or your dumb life, why on earth would you ask me such a question. What kind of person asks another person what they should get on their body that would last forever? The only one who can make that choice is you.
People also feel the need to point out other tattooed people to me. You know, because I’m Hellen Keller. “Look, that girl has tattoos too!” Oh I know, I already saw her at the annual meeting. What the fuck?
Aside from people touching, judging, and just straight up asking stupid questions, they also seem to think that I am just filled with regret. What am I going to do when I’m older…what about my wedding…waaahhh wah. I’m not going to waste my precious time explaining what it feels like to have a moment in time translated to a permanent piece of art on your body, but to, again, assume that my personal , planned choices are more likely to negatively impact my life than yours are, then you have your own set of problems. And obviously, we are going to look equally as shitty when we are old.
If I do so choose to get married, I will be looking fabulous as fuck, tattoos and all. If you would prefer to only measure the standards of female beauty by what Victoria’s Secret shows you, then I anticipate a rough road ahead for you. Women with tattoos are just as beautiful, just as smart, and just as approachable as the “girl next door” is supposed to be, and they deserve a hell of a lot better than a trashy stigma and public groping.
That’s my bitch fest for the week. And stop calling them tats.