I got my first tattoo as soon as I turned 18. My sister had a sunburst inked on the inside of her ankle, and just like I’d started smoking clove cigarettes and listening to The Specials because she did, I asked her to draw me a matching sunburst that I could take to the tattoo parlor once I was legal. She held my hand while I held my breath through what felt like hundreds of tiny bees stinging me over and over—and then, that was it. My mother was scandalized, and I felt very cool. For nearly 30 years, I had only that one small tattoo on my inner right ankle, and no particular urge to get any more.
Now, I can’t tell you how many tattoos I have. I don’t even know how to count them. Are the butterflies that start on my left shoulder and cascade down my right arm all one tattoo, or several? What about the tiny sparkles that accompany their flight? (Also, did you know a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope? I didn’t until just now—and I have one permanently drawn on me.)
What I can tell you is that I often forget about the tattoos I can’t see without a mirror (there are four of those—I’m pretty sure), and that sometimes I catch a glimpse of my own arm out of the corner of my eye and think there’s a bug crawling on me, or that I brushed up against some dirt, before I realize what I’m seeing.
No regrets, as they say, but sometimes I ask myself the same question my daughter asked me one cold winter evening over dinner at Fanelli Café, our favorite mother-daughter date night spot. “Why now, and why so many?”
If I’m honest, the “why now” is the same as when I got my first tattoo: I was inspired by someone cooler than me. At 18, it was my sister. At 46, it was a dude I dated for a couple of months one summer. (Not, I should note, Mr. Spicy Lip Tattoo—this one was a full-grown adult.) He had tattoos all over his body, some so faded you could hardly make out what they were, newer ones popping with primary colors and whimsical designs.
When I asked about them, he took a casual tone that surprised me, calling them “doodads” and shrugging when I questioned why he’d gotten this or that one. “My friends and I used to sit around and try to come up with the dumbest possible tattoo ideas. Then I’d take them to my artist. He’d shake his head and say, ‘what are we putting on you today?’” he laughed.
We learn something from every relationship, no matter how short-lived. From this one, I learned that getting a tattoo doesn’t have to be that big of a deal.
For a long time, I’d considered getting “ask, seek, knock”—my favorite scripture—tattooed on my arm, but it was always a fleeting thought. Once, I mentioned to my teenage daughters that I might get another tattoo and they snorted with laughter. “What would you get, a Bible verse?” one of them sniped. Kids have a way of keeping you humble.
Now, though, I was suddenly ready to go for it. Out for a walk one blazing hot summer afternoon, I realized I was close to a popular, reputable Park Slope tattoo parlor. On the spur of the moment, I walked in and asked if they had any available appointments, right now, with any artist. They did not—but they took my name and promised to call if anything opened up.
I headed home to make dinner for the kids, but no sooner had I opened the refrigerator door than I got a call from the tattoo shop asking if I could come back that evening. The universe was working in my favor; the children could feed themselves.
“I’m not going to be home for dinner,” I informed my older daughter. “I’m going to get a tattoo.”
“Finally getting that Bible verse?” she smirked, amusement dancing behind her eyes.
“Oh, bug off,” I said. (One advantage of having grown-up kids is that you can stop censoring yourself.)
“You pray with that mouth, Mom?”
Indeed, I do. And I’d made up my mind: If the dude I was dating could have “SNACK BAR” tattooed across his stomach, I could have my little Bible verse on my arm. In fact, since the tattoo shop charged by the hour and there was a one-hour minimum, I got a second verse on the other arm.
Getting those tattoos felt like the start of a new era. We weren’t too far out from pandemic days, when my then-partner and I shared an apartment, our blended family stuck inside like caged animals, stalking around and snarling at each other. One night when our kids were all at their other parents’ homes, I smashed dishes at his feet and screamed at him so furiously that I shook for hours afterward, rocked by the power of my own rage.
Now, for the first time in my life, I lived in my own apartment. I supported myself, took care of my family, and did exactly as I pleased at all times. I felt different on the inside, and I wanted to look different on the outside, too.
Not long after I got my Bible verse tattoos, I ran into my pandemic ex on the street. (Brooklyn is a small town.) He took in my tattoos and nodded, as if a mystery had been solved. “I get it,” he said. “You’re going through something.” He looked satisfied, and as I walked away I felt that old anger bubbling up. They’re just tattoos, I wanted to yell after him.
Later that summer, I took my girls to a lake in New Hampshire and stayed in the same condo my ex and I had escaped to during the pandemic with our kids. This time, I had the master suite all to myself. I happily starfished across the king-sized bed, took too many edibles, and stayed up late laughing with my girls. No one scowled at me or said, “Can I speak to you alone for a minute, please?” It was bliss.
Our Airbnb was across the street from a tattoo parlor, and in previous years, we’d joked about stopping in for a permanent souvenir. Now though, it wasn’t a joke. On our last day of vacation my older daughter and I got tattoos (a heart and scorpio sign for me, and a snake for her). I tried to talk the artist into letting my little one, 17 at the time, get inked along with us. “Isn’t your state motto ‘Live Free or Die’?” I asked when he said she had to be 18. No dice. Once upon a time, I would have been upset at the thought of my child getting a tattoo, and now I was aiding and abetting her.
Back home, I started scrolling the Instagram accounts of local artists and quickly found inspiration. That fall, I got the butterflies on my arms. Not long after, I fell head-over-heels in love. One morning as I dragged myself out of his bed, not wanting to be late for an appointment to get another tattoo—a marbled heart—he said, eyes twinkling, “What if you got my name, though?” I knew he was kidding, but I surprised him anyway by getting his initial on my ribcage, in delicate script that my tattoo artist assured me would be easy to make into something else down the road. (She also threw it in for free.) We’d been dating for three weeks.
On a Christmastime trip to Vegas, my cousin and I made a pilgrimage to Guy Fieri’s restaurant, which turns out to be next to a tattoo shop. Convenient! After putting our name on the waitlist for a table, we wandered next door, chatted with the artists, made appointments, and put down deposits. Then over Trash Can Nachos, we scrolled our phones for images we wanted inked on our bodies for the rest of time. She chose a cat, I chose a pansy; we both felt pretty badass.
For Valentine’s Day, I got a snake with hearts running down the length of its body. In the spring, I got a bouquet of flowers. Then, at the beginning of the summer, I got laid off. Tattoos were no longer in my budget and I had bigger things to figure out than whether to get more color or stick to black.
Given unlimited cash flow, would I have full sleeves by now? It’s impossible to say for sure, but I don’t think so. Maybe I’d have some morning glories wrapping around one arm, in shades of majestic purple. But I think my tattoo era was winding down anyway. If I had something to prove to myself, I proved it. I’m cool enough.
I’m still not sure how to fully answer the “why now, and why so many” question. If I’d never dated Dumb Tattoo Guy, would I have ever gotten those Bible verses I’d been thinking about for so long? And if I hadn’t gotten them, would the Instagram algorithm have fed me tattoo artist profiles until I decided I must have those butterflies? And that marbled heart? And those flowers?
Who knows? And ultimately, who cares? As I’ve often said to people who question me about the impulse to get tattoos in my 40s, I have less time left to live with them than I did when I was young. And maybe my tattoo era isn’t over. When I can afford it again, you might find me at the tattoo parlor, getting someone else’s initial in an inconspicuous place on my body. I never did cover up that other one, even after our romance went sideways. Maybe I’ll have the whole alphabet by the time my soul leaves this tattooed old husk behind. No regrets.
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Elizabeth Laura Nelson has been airing her dirty laundry online since she wrote an “It Happened To Me” story for the late, great xoJane. Since then she’s worked at websites including YourTango, Elite Daily, Woman’s World, and Best Life. When she was 12, she kissed the George Michael poster above her bed every night before she went to sleep.
