I Hate Being Stubborn

I don’t want a tattoo.  I’m no longer making any judgements on anyone who has one.  I just never wanted one and still don’t.  I have trouble giving blood without getting that weak-kneed woozy feeling.  I’m not a big fan of discomfort, either.  I can actually stand more pain than many people.  But that’s only when I HAVE to.  If it’s a choice, I choose the big comfy seat and the soft plushy pillow, please.

When I got Steven, he came with one little quarter sized Playboy Bunny head tattoo on his shoulder.  It could not be more inappropriate for his personality.  There is nothing “Hef” about him.  Of course like many a tattoo, Steven’s appeared in his teen years after a night of beers, buddies and bravado.  Funny thing with tattoos…they can be a permanent reminder of stupid.

In my younger years, I thought I was open-minded.  I’ve discovered that I was a lot more judgmental than I thought.  Tattoos, especially on chicks, were for lowlifes.  I never said it out loud, but I did think it.  And I’d always have some witty remark for women my age walking on the beach with leathery skin, wearing a bikini and sporting a hanging plant tattoo on her breast that probably started out as a rosebud at Woodstock!  Whoopie!  Flower Power!  I never liked tramp stamps or “coin slot tats” as we call them at our house, just because everyone has them.

But when I met Steven, this really grounded conservative business owner (we’re talking about Steven 1.0), I got it.  People change, situations change, you grow up and sober up, and tattoos are just body art, commemorative reminders, tributes, defiant markings and drunken mistakes picked up along the way.  And I am amazed at the stories that go with tattoos.  Either the art or the reason for the tattoo is quite often a landmark in human life.



Steven has gotten 3 new tattoos lately.  The one that I find to be incredible is a line from a country song that is now permanently recorded on his bicep.  “God must really love me”.  The implication is huge and tiny all at once.  It’s a simple thought  that has many complicated meanings but it really condenses the battle with lymphoma into a concise little package.  And it has warmed me to the idea of tattoos.  Alexis, our 21st century daughter, is contemplating getting one and I’m not even freaking out.  Her reason and art are meaningful to her, and I get it.

But let’s get back to the most important topic…ME.  I still don’t want a tattoo.  No reason, I just don’t want one or need one at this time.  However, yesterday I was joking with Steven and I said, “I’m going to get that tattooed on my chest.”  And of all the stupid things he could say, what came out of his mouth was the worst.  “I forbid it”.  Seriously?  Are you kidding me?  You really said that?  Now I have to get a tattoo…on my chest…that says YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.  I hate being stubborn!


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