At my core I’m pretty much just a goody goody. In fact, for the most part I am simply a scared little rule-abider, and that’s okay. It’s worked pretty well for me so far.
But every few years I do something exciting.
When I was in high school I opted for gauged ears. I got up to a size 6, which is about the size of a hole punch. However, prom time came around and I missed my pretty earrings so I took the monster (emphasis added not because its true but because it makes me feel like s bad a$$) gauges out: traded in my carved bone gauges for pretty dangly earrings and now don’t have the pain tolerance to do that again.
(pictures unavailable because I’m unwilling to post pictures of myself in High School)
Fast forward a couple years (bc again, I tend to only be adventurous every five years or so). I was all ready to go get my first tattoo. I had the design picked out for literally 7 years…no joke, 7 years! That is how ridiculously long I waited to get baby’s first tattoo. So, all shaking with fear, I loaded up my sister and my friend Ashley and off to Dogstar we went. Now, I know this is hard to believe, but some people might say that I do not fit in at a tattoo parlor—-those people are correct. Tattoo parlors are not super comforting to the terrified (like myself); they are super trendy and all the people working there are cooler than you (and you both know it).
Now there are two types of people who get tattoos: the ones who try to pretend they aren’t scared and talk trash, then there are my people who own their terror and announce it openly. (Technically, I guess there are 3 types if you count the adrenaline junkies who just love the excitement and pain of piercings and tattoos-I have a couple of friends like that…I don’t get it. Not that I’m calling any names…Sarah Lynn).
So I put on my big girl pants after 7 years of dragging my feet and I go to get my very first tattoo. Watch as the saga unfolds…..
It was magnificent. And for all that waiting and deliberation I walked away with a little Trinity symbol on my ankle, about the size of a quarter.
A few years of contentness (that may not be a real word) passed, but then that little rebellious munchkin that I keep smothered most of the year popped out. She was spurred on this time by my trip to India, and now that little she-devil wanted a nose ring. She wanted it so bad, in fact, that she demanded I go on my weekend break at the camp I worked at. And she won (I let her win every few years so she doesn’t go buck wild—–you have to placate her). So on the Sunday before 1,000 campers rolled in, myself and a few other bravely foolish girls ran off to get stabbed in the face (piercers, you can dress it up however you want to but that’s exactly what it is). Now, this story is less charming:
In the quaint little town of I-don’t-want-to-get-sued-so-I’m-not-disclosing-anything, a bright eyed girl went to get her nose pierced. She was terrified, mostly because she hates needles but also makes poor choices. When the husky man behind the counter with fingers like sausages asked who was the most scared (because they needed to go first), my hand shot right up. No pretending to be cool here because I have absolutely no poker face.
So I sat in the awkwardly reclined chair that allows the entire room to see up my nose and I braced myself, saying ‘it can’t be as bad as people say’. And I was right…because it was so much worse than that.
Now, the way to pierce someone’s nose is to have the stud on the end of the needle so it can be pulled straight through. The wrong way to pierce a nose is to insert a needle, remove said needle, and then try to get the stud through a wound…guess which way I got. If you guessed the first way than you are an optimist and you will not enjoy the rest of this post…bc you’re wrong, and it hurt like being shot in the face. I have the scar tissue to prove it. But hey, the day wasn’t without charms: my lovely middle aged piercer did offer to pierce every lady part on my body free of charge. What a prince. (For those who don’t speak sarcasm, in case any of you have made it this far which I doubt, I declined).
So that scarred me for a little while, both figuratively and literally. But then, after a while, I decided that I was ready again. I had a design in mind, a birdcage with a bird flying out, in honor of the incredible young girls I work with who are survivors of human trafficking. My mom took a momentary break from her hatred of all things I choose to scar my body with, and designed it with me. And after a few years more (bc it’s worth waiting and debating before you put something permanently on your body) I decided to go for it.
Now, getting a tattoo isn’t a big deal for most people, but it is for me bc I’m kind of a prude. So, to give the rest of this story the dramatic flair that I feel it deserves I’m going to tell it like a story:
Once upon a time there was a scared little girl who thought she was tough. She knew she wanted to get a tattoo but she also knew those suckers last forever so she had to be sure. She picked out her adorable little design and then waited…and waited…then she decided to wait some more. When she was done waiting she waited even longer still. Finally, when even she was tired from all the delay, she put on her big girl pants and drove to the magical land of Dogstar Tattoo Company. It was a strange place with dragons and other mystical creatures everywhere (that parts true, there were sketches of them everywhere). So back in the room the wonderful, magical artist took out his wand…and repeatedly stabbed her in the back of the neck. And then, like a butterfly from a cocoon, from the mess a beautiful birdcage emerged in its place.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Yup, I feel good about the accuracy of that story. And here are the photos, because fairy tales need to have pictures.
for a rainy day 