My body is my journal, and my tattoos are my story.
~Johnny Depp

“Mom, this is something you’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember. Come on, it’s the perfect time,” my daughter avidly demanded as she grabbed my arm, determined to pull me out of the chaise lounge.

Jacqui was right. I’d been dreaming of getting a tattoo for years, so why was the thought suddenly so terrifying when the opportunity presented itself? Excuses gushed from my mouth: “What if it doesn’t come out right?” “It might be overly conspicuous!” “I won’t be able to go swimming for the rest of our vacation.” “Maybe sixty-three is too old for a tattoo.”

Admittedly, my excuses were lame. In truth, doing anything on a whim terrified me. Unlike my spontaneous daughter, I needed days to consider every detail before committing to new things.

But, according to Jacqui, there was no time to contemplate. She had not only made extensive inquiries, but she had confirmed my appointment with a well-recommended tattoo artist for 2:00 that afternoon. Not wanting to disappoint my enthusiastic daughter, I let her drag me up to our hotel room where I quickly changed out of my swimming suit into something more appropriate for our hour-long stroll along the streets of Reno toward my first tattoo parlor.

The rest of our group passed on the offer to tag along. Apparently, relaxing by the pool was more appealing than the thought of witnessing my demise.

I’d known for the past few years what my tattoo would be, but I hadn’t checked out available designs. Since (for a variety of reasons) we’d always associated a dove with my husband’s untimely death, it was definitely going to be a dove. I also knew it would be placed on the outside of my left ankle. Now, I was trusting my daughter to help me decide on the perfect size and image.

My apprehension dwindled with each step along the concrete sidewalk, and eager anticipation began to take over. By the time we entered the front door of the tiny shop, I was steadfast. At first glance, I was taken aback by the multi-tattooed artists and customers, but the intimidation didn’t last long. To the contrary, I was captivated by the adventurous atmosphere, even though the majority of the clients and staff were younger than several of my grandchildren.

I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of the experience: choosing the perfect design, the slight stinging sensation of the needle moving across my skin, and the beautiful end result.

My step was a little lighter on our walk back to the hotel where I proudly showed off my new ink. You would have thought I’d won the Nobel Prize!

Perhaps “proud” is not a strong enough word; I remember my granddaughter remarking that I didn’t wear long pants for over a year after getting my tattoo. Was I really that obvious?

I did, however, learn that tattoos are addicting. It wasn’t long before I had the word “Believe” added to the inside of the same ankle, creating an eloquent bracelet. I’ve never regretted my decision to follow in the footsteps of some of my children and adult grandchildren. I only wish I’d found that confidence years earlier.

— Connie Kaseweter Pullen —