This week I got my first tattoo. Infact my
wrist is a little sore as I type; she’s about 24 hours old now.
Here’s the thing. It’s difficult daily to
own your own body and compete. Being a woman and getting it right is more
complicated than a genius Sudoku. Tick this box, don’t touch that box, look
this way, oooooh you doin’ that guuurrrl?
The new dating lexicon we’re speaking – you
can swipe and destroy or dance round someone you quite like for fear of making
the wrong call in front of your peers. We judge constantly. It’s tough. It’s
like being stuck in a house of mirrors – how are we ever supposed to know what’s
real? It’s bloody exhausting.
I met my tattooist for a drink and we
talked about what I wanted. He doesn’t do many first timers – but we hit it off.
I also, had this feeling, which I struggle with in new interactions, of
not having to be a yes person. When he suggested something I didn’t like – I
went for an alternative, when I had an idea he didn’t like – same. We
collaborated.
He slotted me in for the following morning
– and as I sat talking about 90s indie music surrounded by drawings, patterns
and ideas for other people’s tattoos it felt right. I had less anxiety than
when I last had to choose between sandwich and salad.
We struggle constantly with how to be in
the world. From an ignored text, or a missed date, or the insanity of getting
assaulted in the street by a stranger. Exhausted by our family’s ideas for us,
tired by the constant darkness in the news, worried about how we change things.
We only own one thing – our bodies.
As a new friend, hours earlier a perfect
stranger marked my skin permanently with black ink, and listened to me chatting
away without judgment, I knew this was one step for me to own my own body. Cos
it’s with this body I’m going to make changes for others and achieve everything
I feel I need to – so I choose what goes into it, what goes on it – even if I
can’t control what other people think of it.
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