January 5, 2006

Tattoo Me

Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

In the cold, black night of Christmas Eve, my sister-in-law and I applied fake butterfly tattoos on our lower backs then positioned ourselves stretching and repositioning tree ornaments so that the entire family, alarmed and appalled, noticed them.

Both of our mothers were present, and both screeched in two-part harmony when they laid eyes upon the emblazoned flying monarchs.

Happy on wine and a successful holiday shockwave, my sis-in-law and I high-fived like giddy school children.

Thank you, Pinot Noir.

I would never get a real tattoo because I detest pain; I am especially grievant about self-inflicted pain.

My mom should know me better; I was thirty when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, so what made her think I’d suffer through needles permanently imprinting murky details on my skin?

After all, I was the only student in my seventh-grade science class who wouldn’t prick my finger to find out my blood type. I felt that in a medical emergency it would be much more romantic if the doctors, who were rushed and worried about me, were forced to figure it out themselves.

I want a blaze of glory, the murmurs from the hospital staff as they wheel me into the emergency room asking, “Did anyone get her blood type?”

I’ll be just as surprised as them.

Tattoos fascinate me, however, and I have must admit that my temporary butterfly (he will have long washed away by the time this prints) gave me a weird sense of being cool.

I felt like I’d joined a club and our sign (saturated with water; pressed firmly; held for 30 seconds; peeled back slowly) read: No moms allowed.

Society dictates what’s “in” and, amazingly, even preschool kids fall to its teachings. My young nephews, for example, already associate being “cool” with wearing fake tattoos (yes, I stole my fluttery friend from a four-year-old).

As long as they drink at home, we can buy kids the nectar of cool, right?

There’s nothing wrong with it, of course, but as a purist I’m hoping they outgrow their childhood-tattoo fraternity.


For most, tattoos represent the psychological fulfillment of self-interpretation and expression. Tattoos began as a sign of membership in a culture of sailors, but today people use them to say: This is who I am.

The trouble is, some days I’m a butterfly, while other days I’m a raging bull. Most days I keep to myself, so unless I stand studying it in the mirror, a tattoo’s power of suggestion is pretty irrelevant.

The butterfly sure looked cool, though.