My decision to get a tattoo at 40 wasn’t impulsive; it had been on my mind for nearly a year, ever since I turned 40. It was part of my personal bucket list—a collection of things I had postponed due to concerns about others’ opinions. Am I really the type to write a book? Do “good girls” get tattoos? The inner voice that once said “no way” throughout my 20s and 30s quieted as I embraced my 40s.
When I mentioned my tattoo plans to a friend, she asked, half-joking, “Is this a midlife crisis?” I retorted defensively. But what exactly defines a midlife crisis? Is it the realization that you’ve spent years adhering to an unspoken list of societal expectations, only to see your plans unravel? Is it prioritizing others’ needs to the detriment of your own? Or is it reflecting on lost opportunities and wondering what’s still to come?
If that’s the case, then yes, perhaps.
I spent a lot of time deliberating on what design to choose, creating a secret Pinterest board filled with ideas. Yet, I hesitated as my 40th year drifted by. With summer on the horizon, I knew it was now or never. I found an artist whose work resonated with me and reached out for a consultation.
Stepping into the tattoo shop dressed in yoga pants and clutching a Starbucks, I instantly felt out of place among the heavily tattooed staff. It was like the old Sesame Street skit—one of these things is not like the other. However, when Tara, my chosen artist, approached me, I felt an unexpected sense of comfort. She was warm and attentive, reviewing my sketches and listening to my concepts. Before I could second-guess myself, I put down a deposit and scheduled an appointment for a month later.
In the weeks that followed, my confidence wavered. For someone like me who keeps emotions close to the chest, getting a tattoo felt audacious, even daring. What if my family disapproved? Would my friends see me differently? What if it revealed parts of my life I wasn’t ready to share? But then I thought, who cares?
The most profound lesson I’ve gleaned in my 40 years is that, truly, no one is paying as much attention to me as I think. There’s no club convening to critique my flaws or analyze my missteps. Most people are preoccupied with their own lives. If they do notice and judge me, I realized that no amount of effort on my part could change their perception.
And that’s how I found myself lying on a gray vinyl table, taking deep yoga breaths to manage the pain. “Is it worse than childbirth?” a fellow customer asked.
“Well,” I responded, “it won’t take as long.”
As I pondered her comparison, it dawned on me that I had been viewing this all wrong. Sure, a tattoo is a permanent mark, but my skin already bears scars: stretch marks from pregnancy, a smooth patch on my leg from a childhood skateboard accident, and a triangular scar on my hand from a kitchen mishap. Those are just the visible marks.
At least a tattoo is a scar I’m choosing. Tara shared a heartwarming story of her oldest client, a 76-year-old grandmother who got her first tattoo of an owl perched on a stack of pancakes. She surprised her family at a reunion with this bold choice. If she could do it, so could I.
Tara also mentioned that she was going to give her mother her first tattoo soon. I hadn’t shared my plans with my own mother and was unsure how she would react. I always tell my 11-year-old daughter not to do anything she wouldn’t want me to know about. Her face was judgmental when I revealed my tattoo plans, and she quickly echoed my advice back to me.
My 8-year-old son, however, was more accepting. “That’s fine, but it’s going to hurt,” he said matter-of-factly.
A few days before my appointment, I revisited my daughter’s concerns. She thoughtfully remarked, “You know, Mama, you’re going to get old and wrinkly, and then your tattoo will look bad.”
I considered her words. Yes, I might regret this decision—tomorrow, in a few years, or when I’m older. But I’ve already accumulated numerous regrets labeled “people I’ve hurt,” “missed opportunities,” and “money wasted on shoes.” While I can’t change those, I can certainly address the folder marked “things left undone.”
So, I told her, if my biggest regret at the end of my life is a tattoo, I will have lived a fulfilling life.
For those interested in exploring more about personal choices like this, check out this insightful resource on pregnancy and home insemination from the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development. Additionally, if you’re considering self-insemination, you might find the Home Insemination Kit post informative.
In conclusion, embracing bold choices can lead to personal growth and fulfillment, and I hope my experience resonates with others in their own journeys of self-discovery.