No regerts.

Ohhhhh boy, here it comes! Last time I brought up the uncertainty that was begin to preoccupy my thoughts, but now that we’re into August and my appointment is nine days away, I’m starting to feel the reality of the situation. I’m getting a very large tattoo, I don’t entirely know what it is yet, and it’s going to be a permanent alteration to half my arm forever. This doesn’t seem like a biggest deal, but it is to me. I never commit to anything! And now I’m going to plaster some art on my body like I’m a walking Louvre? What nerve I have, huh?

Some of my worries are very illogical, like “he’s going to nick an important vein and I’m going to bleed to death” or “he’s going to inadvertently draw a huge fucking swastika.” Some of them are more prudent, like “this is going to look stupid when I’m 85 and shriveled up” and “I’m going to have to hide my upper arm from my in-laws for the foreseeable future.” There’s one worry in particular that bugs me the most, and it’s “people are gonna be looking at me.”

I’ve thought about this decision for a long time — years. I’ve hit all the angles: permanence, visibility, initial pain and discomfort, living with the design choice. I’ve come to accept all of it, some components better than others. Some days better than others, even. But only on the very best days do I feel ok about “people are gonna be looking at me.” I hate it when people look at me. My whole vibe is “don’t look at me”, although my wife would argue that my vibe is “don’t look at me… but please do… but please don’t… but do, ok… but don’t.”

When you have tattoos, being looked at is part of the territory. No matter how shitty or good your tattoos are, people are going to either think “that’s shitty” or “that’s good” and there’s nothing you can do about it. So why fret? Why even put any mental energy toward worrying about something as stupid as what Bob down the street is going to think of your right arm art display? If I’m not worried about being judged, then what am I actually worried about?

I could always make my arm look like a Lisa Frank notebook.

Mostly, it’s being talked to, I guess. I’m not gonna wanna talk about my tattoos, ok? Don’t approach me on the street or in a restaurant or on the bus or in the library and go “cool tattoo.” Fuck you. How dare you do something as inconsiderate as force me into a conversation with a total stranger? Boo to that for real. What do you think I’m going to be talking about with you? Our shared love of tattoos? No. Our shared love of art? No. I’m going to cloister myself into my shell of shame until you walk away from me, that’s what I’m going to do.

So, if I have gotten myself to the root of my fears? What can I do it about it? Here are a few simple solutions!

1. Never see another human being again for the rest of my life.
Brilliant in its simplicity. When the final needle of ink is injected my skin come December, I’m going to say toodle-oo to my friends and family just in time for Christmas! December is the perfect time to find a nice cave high in the mountains. I can mingle with various mountain goats and Yetis, bask in the comfort of -40°F weather, and enjoy staring at my tattoo while I die of starvation and exposure.

2. Wear long sleeves for the rest of my life.
Ah, now this is realistic. In order to prevent all the lookie-loos from staring at my arm, I shall wear long-sleeved t-shirts, button-downs, and Snuggies. 110°F Chicago summers? Wool coats and cable knit sweaters. My arm shall never see the light of day, and I will greatly enjoy seeing my tattoo disintegrate under all the heat rash.

3. Get over it.
Yeah, get over it. Nobody cares about this except me. This seems like the most likely option, except I still want to make friends with a nice, strong Yeti.

The next time I update the Chronicles of the Tattoo, I hope to have some cool ink to share while I simultaneously freak the fuck out about my midlife crisis decision and my complete collapse into depression and anxiety. Tally ho!