How I got myself a tattoo
This year, I decided to be tattooed. The idea struck some of my friends as inadequate and even untimely. After all, they said, you are 42. You are a mother of three, introvert and conventional as introvert and conventional can be. Tattoos are for the young.
But I could only get a tattoo after being 42. I was born with birthmarks galore. My body collected scars and unmistakable signs of the passage of time. None of them I chose to have, though I do accept them as illustrations to my story, from the fall from a swing as an infant to the birth of my own children. A proof of life. I decided it was time to add to the pages of my picture book something of my own choice. Like a comment or a footnote.
That is why I spot on my back a small and delicate tattooed flower. My signature.
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