If it isn’t already obvious from the title, I have tattoos.
No, my mama doesn’t love them, but she doesn’t hate ’em, either. I was fortunate to be raised by adults who didn’t force their preferences on me; they let me choose, even if they didn’t agree. Which is good, because tattoos really aren’t a big fucking deal.
I remember the first time some older dude told me, “That’s gonna look dumb when you’re old.” I just shrugged and said, “Yeah, probably” and walked away. Because, sure, that could happen.
But what if I pick up Keto and lifting in my late 20s and my skin never sags?
What if I lose my arm in a freak accident in my 30s?
What if I pick up a new religion in my 40s, and I cover my wrists for the rest of my life?
Maybe all that shit happens; maybe none of it does. Either way, it doesn’t fucking matter. Because even if I live to 80, and my balloon looks like a blue puddle of melted crayon, and my light bulb looks like, well, a bigger less-symmetrical light bulb:
My tattoos will still mean the same goddam thing.
I didn’t get them because they were pretty (although I do think they are).
I didn’t get them thinking my 19-year-old body would look like this forever.
And I sure as hell didn’t get them for you to comment on my appearance and remind me that my body—and the things on it—are only valuable when they look good.
Who gives a shit what they’ll look like in thirty years?
Mary's One Hundred 