Line art

As mentioned a couple posts ago, I am getting a tattoo.  I got the line art only done today due to unforeseen time and money constraints.  Let me tell you, I'm glad I stopped when I did, because I just had to pick a ridiculously intense spot: the sternum.  Ouch.

Stings like a...
(Not me.)

Why the sternum?  A number of reasons.

1. I can see it.  My motif is of a poppy (for California), an apple blossom (for my hometown) and forget-me-nots (for my mother, my Mother, and probably President Uchtdorf.  [Love that man... in a totally appropriate, respectful, and non-creepy-fangirl way.]  Or for myself.  I have to remember to forget-Me-not, too.)  I chose these flowers as symbols of where I came from and what my roots are.
2. It's pretty much hidden from public view.  Very few of my tops are a threat to its visibility.  It ride just above my bra neckline and just below my garments.  Hopefully this will keep it from being seen by anyone for long enough to be able to say (once it's spotted) "oh, I've had that for a long while."
3. It's bony enough that when my weight fluctuates, my skin (HOPEFULLY) won't distort too badly

So, why did I get a tattoo?  Because I did.  I've never been supremely interested in them; I thought the idea was kind of interesting before President Hinckley advised against it back in the mid/late-1990s, but that was enough to make me ignore the option for about 15 years.  I've been thinking about it for approximately a year now, but I wasn't drawn to the idea very strongly.  I was more interested in additional ear piercings because they seemed like less commitment.  When Mom died, and I started thinking about moving on from my hometown, I found myself wanting something bigger, a more detailed reminder of where I'm from as I get where I'm going.

So now I have the beginnings of that reminder.  It's rather surreal after so many years of being told that it was bad and wrong or unwise.  I didn't do it to be a rebel, but it is a rebellious act.  It's very strange, but I'm really kind of in love with it.

On that note, good night!

Optional reading: My experience of the tattooing itself.

It didn't hurt the way I thought it would.  I was expecting something more like a severe muscular ache, but it felt much more like someone took a sharpened pencil or a thin line ball point pen and ran it across my skin hard enough to raise a light welt.  Either that or like an extended, artistic cat scratch. It hurt but it wasn't awful; It stung and it was irritating but it was bearable and I could talk normally through it.  Nevertheless, I was making some rather expressive faces at times and attempting to breathe deeply without moving my chest.  That was interesting.  I will be loading up on ibuprofen before I get colored in.  Happily, though, I apparently have very easy skin to tattoo.  I have no idea why or what that means, but it probably made my life a lot easier today.

It was rather strange to have someone I barely know at all flopped across my stomach during the work to make sure I stayed as still as possible.  Also strange to only have a scarf (that I wisely brought along at the last minute) for a drape to cover my breasts.  I'm sure the artist has seen enough breasts not to care much anyway.  (When you've seen enough bodies in a professional context, it becomes a non-issue.)    I was glad to have one of my several best friends there, after supporting her while she got hers, and squeezing her hand during my more intense moments.  It was nice not to be alone, although I'm sure I could have handled it just fine if I had been.

Would I do it again?  Yes.  Would I take a painkiller first?  Yes, but not aspirin (which thins the blood.)  Was I more mentally psyched out that perhaps was warranted?  Probably.  Fighting through the conditioning and having to accept the possibility of shame and rejection might have been the hardest part.

I shall return and report when all is completed.