First tattoo at age 46, imagine

SO I just got my first tattoo at the age of 46 and somehow I feel different. I was deathly afraid of getting a tattoo, yet had been want­ing one for decades. Two weeks prior to the ap­pointment I’d found the cour­age to get to the tattoo studio for a pre-arranged consulta­tion. I’d been thinking about this day for a long time. I met Alex, the woman who would soon be drawing on me in a way that would stay with me forever. I told her what I wanted, and where I wanted it, and within five minutes she’d drawn it, exactly as I’d envisioned it should look. I was impressed.

The design was something meaningful to me personally, of course, but also a tribute to my beloved sister Brigitte, whose loneliness and despair had contributed to her death. When she died four years ago some of my faith in humanity died, too.

She, the artist in the family, believed in love and peace and art and making the world a better place. She envisioned a world where no one suffered, and she thought tattoos were pretty cool.

I gave Alex a down payment and was on my way, with her business card in my pocket. On the back was the date of the appointment I'd wanted for almost 30 years: Oct.15, 2009, the day I would be permanently scarred. I mean, tattooed.

And then of course there's the whole stigma of associations with the criminal element to contend with. I thought we'd moved past that but apparently there are still a lot of people who think that if you're tattooed then you must be some kind of hooligan. I wish people were more open-minded.

But when Thursday, Oct. 15 came, I found myself walking to 1767 Portage Avenue. I'd already documented my anxiety, terror and excitement on Facebook and posted the pre-tattoo arm pictures where 200 of my closest friends had seen it and were keenly anticipating the post-tattoo pictures. There was no turning back.

So there I was, face to face with Alex again, this time for a longer appointment, an hour and a half. I had deliberately kept myself uninformed about the tattoo process itself, unlike every other situation in life where I would compulsively research every minute aspect of everything.

It was enough that I knew pain was involved. I didn't really want to know much more. And me being me (so squeamish I'd fainted after having my ears pierced) this was a situation where I would ask nothing -- unheard of for me.

So, after the final formality of signing the consent form stating that I was over 18, did not have a heart condition, hepatitis or a bleeding disorder, was sober and not under the influence of any drugs, I was officially on my way.

Alex began by placing a stencil of the design on my arm and having me look at it first in the full length mirror to ensure that I was happy with the design and its placement. Seated in a comfortable padded chair like the kind in a dentist's office, in a meticulously clean room, Alex took out the various implements she would be using, explaining each one carefully and clearly. With great precision and in a reassuring tone, she began to drill, I mean apply, the tattoo gun, I mean thingy, to the skin of my forearm. The sound and the action were surreal, something like a dental drill or an electric razor but a little quieter. I looked away the entire time and told myself that I was somewhere else doing something mundane, like grocery shopping or laundry. Whenever reality crept back I reminded myself of the necessity to daydream.

Though squeamish, I have always had a high pain threshold, so the pain part wasn't so bad. But my hands were sweating so much from the sheer magnitude of my controlled nervousness, that I was sure they were dripping and making puddles on the squeaky clean polished floor.

But Alex talked to me the whole time. We chatted about my work, which was good, because it took my mind off of HER work, and favorite topics of mine like Woody Allen and John Lennon and, and -- and, before I knew it, Alex announced that she was finished. I was stunned back into reality.

My arm would never be the same. I finally looked. And I loved it. I absolutely loved it. One word beautifully scripted on my forearm in black ink. Forever here. Scarred. I mean tattooed. Permanently. I'd finally done it, 28 years later than I would have liked but better late than never. My sister Brigitte would have approved of one of John Lennon's song titles on her sister's arm. Imagine.

Janine Legal is a Winnipeg writer and immigration activist.

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition November 3, 2009 A13