That is the question. So I may be having a
midlife crisis. I have a sneaking bubbling desire to acquire a tattoo at the
ripe old age of 44. Not one of those horrific sleeves or a tramp stamp at the
top of my jeans nor do I want to mark the latitude and longitude of my
children’s birthplaces on my arm a la Angelina Jolie. Just a teeny tiny symbol
or word on a place very few (other than my nearest and dearest) will have
viewing access. I hear what you are thinking. Big rebel, right? But for a
middle class girl from Perth who was a teenager in the 80’s where those with a
tattoo were either bikies or in the navy, it’s a big step.
Call me smalltown, but I am still
astonished when I travel to places where one is compelled to wear swimmers and
hence view others in theirs, at the sheer number of people who have one. Old
and young, women and men. And not just teeny tiny ones. We’re talking sizeable
works of art that you know would have required hours of agony inducing needle
punctures.
My first exposure to the craft of body art
was my brother who is 6 years younger than I. Much to my parent’s horror their
lovely, but somewhat rebellious, son waltzes in at 18 with a mean looking
tribute to a recently deceased mate. Paralyse me perpendicular, as my Dad would
say. Shortly after that a second eagle appeared on his upper right chest. At
that point my parents shrugged their shoulders and said, as many have before
them, he’s an adult, it’s his decision.
The golden moment came a couple of years
later. My parents had mastered the art of detachment by then. However, one warm
summer’s day (and we have a lot of them in Perth, let me tell you) my gorgeous
niece Maddy spied uncle Jock’s tatts while swimming in the family pool and like
all observant 4 year olds duly commented on what she saw to the entire family
gathering. “Jock’s got stamps”. Out of the mouths of babes. My dad loved this
story and it was a big contributor to said tattoos becoming a non-issue from
that point on.
So back to me and my ink. Being a somewhat
analytical person I asked myself what was driving me to this yearning for
personal graffiti. When I said midlife crisis earlier what I really think I
mean is midlife re-evaluation.
Believe it or not, aside from the slowly
dawning reality of the effects of gravity and excess on my physical form, I
love getting older. Bit by bit, the layers of immaturity and fragility are
peeled away to be replaced by growing wisdom and strength. I know more about
who I am, what I stand for, what is important to me and what I want from the
next four decades or so, god willing that I am granted that. I care less what
people may think or say about me and even more telling, have realized that
generally people aren’t even thinking that much about you at all. Things happen
that may sting but the sting wears away a helluva lot quicker than it used to.
For us sensitive souls this is good news.
My friendships have become sweeter in
recent years as the female tendency to compete and compare gives way to
tenderness and respect for what many of my friends have endured. Most of us are
touched in some way by hard times and tragedy. Rather than this depleting and
depressing me, I see it as a great connector. I remember my mum saying that the
older she gets the more fun and appreciation she has with and for her
girlfriends. We realise no-ones life is a perfect fairytale so let’s just get
on with it and enjoy the time together and be there for each other as much as
we can.
So the tattoo, if I get one, will be an
aide-mémoire to myself of these sentiments. Although it may wrinkle and distort
over the years it will always be there as a reminder of my mid-life evolution.
A bespoke marker to the unknown path ahead.
Anyone want to join me?
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