Coming Out of the Closet

Since it seems to be monsoon season in the Northeast, indoor activities replace fun in the sun. Yesterday, I had two accomplishments: I filed every receipt, document and bill--a thick pile that had risen for months; and I pulled everything out of the smallest closet in the smallest room, culled the ridiculous mix of old tax returns, shoes, bags of cloth and yarn, piled up the giveaways, the to-be consigned, and put back the items that live to die another day. I was lucky to emerge from that closet, profusely perspiring and bruised from the seriously close quarters.

It's time I come out of the closet about something else--my tattoos.

My daughter and son got tattoos in the summer of 2010. We lived near Providence, RI at the time. Mariel got a small black-ink tattoo on her wrist. It was my signature, which she said she'd faked many times. Mark got one on his chest over his heart: my birth date in Roman numerals in New Roman font, as he likes to point out. Send a kid to Columbia and they go esoteric whenever they can. Mariel wore a watch over her tattoo when she wanted to conceal it from someone who might not approve, like my husband or her grandmother. Mark figured his was normally hidden by a shirt, except when he runs in warm weather or when he swims.

I was honored by the tattoos, but I knew my husband would not approve. He associated tattoos with concentration camp internees who were tattooed on their wrists. Marty's dad, who survived Auschwitz, had a tattoo. The jig was up, however, because Marty was using one of Mark's old phones and he was deleting photos when he saw one of Mark with a tattoo. "Mark has a tattoo?" I could only say yes, and that Mariel had one, too.

Long ago, I associated tattoos with with certain kinds of men: sailors, prisoners, military fodder, motorcylists and drug addicts. My attitude changed during a long illness which involved lots of blood and needles. At the time, I was involved with a discussion group, and one survivor, a woman, posted a question about wanting to celebrate her success with a tattoo. She wanted suggestions. I didn't weigh in on the topic, but it made me think about my bias.

Several years ago, I secretly got a tattoo on my upper back, a coffee cup. Mark suggested it, because I love coffee so much. Marty was appalled, but he faithfully changed my bandages and tried not to think about it. Why did I do it? Because it felt rebellious, something that would be unexpected if not shocking. I was in my mid-50's; the kids were gone; and I had spent too long be too good. I wanted to be bad.

Unfortunately, the coffee cup's placement was such that I never saw it. And unless I wore strapless or strappy tops, no one else did either. During at an appointment with my dermatologist, he said "oh, I see you like coffee." Did I have grinds on my back? I needed a tattoo I could actually see. This would be a big step because it meant that those who would disapprove could see it, too.

My beloved dog Turbo died at age 14.5 a week after Thanksgiving, 2010. I would have a portrait of him tattooed on my inner calf. I have an engraved image of a Bouvier de Flandres on my key chain, with which the artist made his tracing. It certainly hurt more than the coffee cup but was worth the pain. Much larger than the cup, it has Turbo's head surrounded by a braided rope with crossed dog bones at the bottom. The colors are gray, aqua, pink and black. In truth, it doesn't do Turbo justice, but it's a constant reminder of him, and I can see it.

I was visiting my mother-in-law in Florida for a few days. It was quite warm so I decided to wear cropped pants. As we were leaving the apartment, Frances said to me, "what's that on your leg." I answered, "What. Oh, that's Turbo." She shook her head, did a little clucking of her tongue and said "Women don't have tattoos." And that was the end of it. I was out of the closet.

Yesterday, The New York Times published an article about how women get tattooed more often than men these days. Here's the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/04/books/bodies-of-subversion-explores-womens-tattoos.html. I admit that it makes me feel "cool" when someone says they like my tat. After my first tattoo, Mariel called me "hipster mom." I want to get another one soon, perhaps "Pura Vida" in rain forest green. Suggestions are welcome.