Just typing that made me want to cross my arms gansta style.
(Can you say: dorky white girl?) Anyway…
Last night I went out with a group of childhood friends, all of whom have multiple tattoos on various (painful!) parts of their bodies. The evening was organized to celebrate one friend’s engagement, but quickly morphed into a trip to the local tattoo parlor to add some ink to available skin real estate.
On the drive to Resurrection, I asked the girls if they disliked the tats they had gotten when we were teenagers. “No way!” was the collective response. Those tattoos represented rebellion and youth and all the memories of our senior year of high school. They were proud of their matching ankle roses.
It occurred to me then, that these girls are like my tattoos. Sure, if I walked into a friend parlor today, I might not pick the exact same designs I chose when I met each of them. But they’re a part of me now. My style may have changed, but the affinity I have for what they stand for, what we’ve been through, how they’ve always been there for me can never be altered. They are permanent marks on my being.
I held my pal’s hand while she sat under the needle. She squeezed the hell out of my fingers. But it was worth it knowing that if I ever needed to do the same, she’d offer up her palm in a heartbeat.