The Illustrated Man

I think I might have a problem. An issue. A friend referred to it as an addiction.

Ever since I was a teenager I had this overwhelmingly rebellious desire to have a tattoo. I fought that craving for many years. Not necessarily because I thought it was wrong… but rather because I didn’t know what to get. The idea of permanently inking myself was something that I felt needed some thought. Deep contemplation.

To me tattoos tell the story of someone’s life. The stories can be obvious or vague, but either way they reveal a lot. As a kid I read the book “The Illustrated Man” by Ray Bradbury. I fell in love with its stories. I believe that this was the beginning of my fascination.

After a way-too-soon midlife crisis in my early 30’s, I decided that tattoo time was here. I visited various tattoo parlors with people just to see what it was all about. I was curious of the procedure, as well as the artistic angle. I watched closely as people received their first or thirtieth tattoo. Never straying my eyes from the needle. I’m weird like that. I even stood right there as a girl got her tongue pierced. It wasn’t pleasant, but oddly very entertaining. I didn’t know the newly pierced victim, but she said she didn’t mind me watching. I will never forget the look in her eyes when that needle forced itself up through her tongue. No thank you. I think I’ll pass on that.

After much anxiety, I finally made a decision on what to get and where. I drew up my own little design and studied over it for a week or so. When T-Day had arrived, my support crew of about 10 joined me at a little classy joint called “7th Street Tattoo and Piercing”. I couldn’t have done it without them. They were cheering me on throughout the whole painful process. Yup, painful. When I told the artist that I wanted it just below my ankle bone, he warned me that it was a painful area. I went for it anyway.

I now sport a cute little black-ink-only igthuse below my right ankle bone. I felt it represented my struggles and my faith... with a little bit of rebellion thrown in. I don’t regret it one bit.

Infact…

The other day I had an email conversation with my friend I mentioned in my first sentence. We were discussing tattoos. A topic she knows very well since she is adorned with them. It’s not like she has a body suit of tattoos, but she’d win any office contest for sure.

I explained to her that I’m feeling a little unbalanced. I have this small tattoo on one side, but there’s nothing on the other. I feel a little right-heavy. I compared it to my graphic designing. Layout has to have balance. Whether it’s with color, graphic or just white space, it must be balanced. I’m not balanced.

That’s when she threw all my excuses away and said...

“No. It’s called an addiction.”

Can I have an addiction after just one? Is that possible? I’ve done pretty good in life staying away from stuff like crack, acid, and heroin. I hear that once you’ve smoked crack, you’re pretty much addicted. Does the same apply to tattoos? Surely not. Right?

Maybe she speaks from experience. Maybe she had the same issue after her first. I wonder how long it was in-between her first two. Maybe I need to set up an interview with her and ask her all these questions I have swirling around in my head. I don’t want to be addicted… just balanced. Right?

Of course, I do find it funny that I’m willing to sit through that pain again. For some reason I associate the pain with good - not bad. Good pain. The kind of pain that tells you that you’re alive. It wakes up your nerve endings. Physically and emotionally.

Wait. That’s how an addict would talk. Good grief. She’s right. I’m staying as far away from tattoo parlors as possible.

I’ll just spend the rest of my life unbalanced – in more ways than one, I'm sure.