Deciding to get a tattoo at the age of 40 wasn’t an impulsive act; it had been on my mind for nearly a year, ever since I hit that milestone birthday. It became part of a personal bucket list, a collection of experiences I had postponed for too long due to concerns about others’ opinions. I often questioned my worthiness: “Am I really the type to write a book? Do respectable individuals get tattoos?” However, the critical voice in my head that echoed “no one” and “never” during my 20s and 30s began to fade as I embraced 40.
“Is this a midlife crisis?” a friend half-joked, half-worried when I revealed my tattoo plans. “No!” I responded defensively. But what exactly defines a midlife crisis? Is it the realization that you have lived by a strict set of unwritten rules only to see everything unravel? Is it prioritizing others’ needs for so long that you forget your own? Or perhaps it’s reflecting on past relationships and missed opportunities, wondering if more are on the horizon? If that’s the case, then yes, maybe it is.
I pondered deeply about the design of the tattoo, curating images on a private Pinterest board. Yet, I hesitated, allowing my 40th year to slip by without action. As summer approached, I recognized the time had come. I located an artist online whose portfolio resonated with me and requested a consultation.
Walking into the tattoo studio clad in yoga pants and clutching a Starbucks cup, I felt the eyes of the heavily tattooed staff on me, clearly amused. I was the outlier in a sea of inked individuals. However, when Tara, the artist I chose, greeted me, I felt an immediate sense of comfort. She was warm and attentive, reviewing my sketches and listening to my thoughts. Before I could second-guess myself, I paid a deposit, booked an appointment for a month later, and left feeling empowered.
As the weeks passed, my confidence wavered. For someone who typically keeps her emotions tucked away, the act of getting a tattoo felt daring—almost rebellious. What if my family disapproved? What if it altered how my friends perceived me? What if it allowed strangers to glimpse aspects of my life I wasn’t ready to share? But then I thought, so what?
The most valuable lesson I’ve learned in four decades is this: No one is meticulously observing me. There isn’t a committee dissecting my shortcomings, nor is anyone scrutinizing my mistakes. Most individuals are too preoccupied with their own lives to focus on mine. And if they do judge me, no amount of effort on my part will change their views.
Thus, I found myself lying face down on a gray vinyl table, breathing through the discomfort, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly.
“Is it worse than childbirth?” another client asked.
“Well,” I replied, “it won’t take as long.”
Reflecting on the comparison, I realized my perspective on tattoos had been misguided. While a tattoo is a lasting mark, my skin already bears numerous scars—stretch marks from carrying and nursing two children, a smooth patch on my leg from a childhood skateboard accident, and a triangle scar on my hand from a knife slip. And those are just the visible ones.
At least a tattoo represents a scar I consciously choose.
Tara shared a story about her oldest client, a 76-year-old grandmother who got her first tattoo—a whimsical owl perched on a stack of pancakes. She surprised her family at a reunion with this bold choice. I found inspiration in that tale; if she could do it, so could I. Tara also mentioned that she was preparing to give her own mother a tattoo. I hadn’t yet shared my plans with my mother and was uncertain about her reaction. I often remind my 11-year-old daughter to avoid actions she wouldn’t want me to know about. Naturally, she echoed this advice back to me when I first mentioned my tattoo, her tone filled with judgment.
My 8-year-old son had a more relaxed response: “Fine,” he said, “but it’s going to hurt.”
Days before my appointment, I tried once more to win my daughter over. She paused before saying, “You know, Mama, you’re going to get old and wrinkly, and then your tattoo will look bad.”
I considered her words. Sure, it’s possible I’ll regret this decision—maybe tomorrow, in a few years, or even when I’m old and wrinkled. But I already carry a mountain of regrets neatly categorized into folders labeled “people I’ve hurt,” “opportunities missed,” and “too much spent on shoes.” I can’t change those, but the folder labeled “things left undone” is slowly getting smaller.
So, I told her this, a sentiment I hope she carries as she grows: If, at the end of my life, my greatest regret is a tattoo, I will have led a fulfilling life.
In conclusion, the journey of embracing a tattoo at 40 symbolizes a courageous step toward self-acceptance and personal expression. It serves as a reminder that life is about making choices that resonate with our true selves, regardless of societal expectations.
Keyphrase: tattoo at 40
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