Tattoo who? Tattoo me please!

I have 6. I want more.

It’s an addiction really, something I can’t explain other than being an indescribable need. It’s everything you want to say about yourself and choose to wear it on your skin. It’s the permanent parts of you that are spoken about to others but quickly lost once your words touch their ears. Words are temporary, ink is forever. It’s a form of self-expression when all other forms of expression fail. It’s also a right of self-ownership, embracing our bodies and making conscious choices on what to do with it.

I don’t fit the mold of what a typical suburban mom should be. I honestly don’t have a clue exactly what the hell that definition would be. And I really don’t care.

I speak my mind without reservation. My hair color stands out from the mundane. My clothing is a unique blend of yoga pants and leather.  My nail color of choice is black. My array of visible tattoos will sometimes catch others off-guard. My occupation as a professional writer confuses people. They tend to squint their faces and ask, “so how does that work?” Unwilling to fall into the suburban Stepford Wife mold, I tend to sit alone at the PTA meetings, which is fine with me

I’m educated, intelligent, talented, a faithful friend and wife, and a damn good mom. Judging this book by its cover means missing out on one hell of a deal.  And I’m absolutely dying to get my half-sleeve started, which I will wear proudly while grocery shopping and at teacher conferences.

Mmmm, I can almost smell the fresh ink and feel the sting of the needle, all while drafting a shopping list and and booking playdates for my kids.

Namaste.

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