When I was about 19 years old a friend of mine got a tattoo. She wasn't the first person I knew with a tattoo, but that little stick figure dragon she had made me want one. Bad. The next year, I began talking about it more and more. And more. And more.
I wanted a rose. I was 19/20. I liked roses. I used rose-scented soap and it just seemed right. I didn't really know where I wanted it but I think back shoulder was the place I was thinking. But at the same time, a rose was very girly. And seemed kind of cliche.
Fast forward a few months and I was sitting on my kitchen floor with a couple of friends. The three of us had been in Kansas City all day and we had bonded. Cori was one of these friends, the other was RFFF. While sitting on the kitchen floor, drinking and whatnot, we began to talk about tattoos--specifically what tattoo I should get. I started in with the idea of a rose, but it had started to loose its appeal. Cori thought I should get a bull. I was a Taurus and one night the year before while drinking in her dorm room (sorry, Mom), Cori referred to me as a little Bull Head. But I didn't want a bull just because it was "my sign."
And then RFFF said, "What was the name of that bull that always stopped to smell the flowers?"
Ferdinand.
Now... let's go back even farther, back to when I was a kid. My dad always compared me to a Shetland Pony. They were small, he said, and cute. So small and cute that people underestimated them. But they were incredibly stubborn and ornery little creatures, he said. Just like me. I was small and cute that no one expected me to be so stubborn and ornery. I don't know if Shetland Ponies really are all that stubborn, but I kind of liked being compared to one.
What does this have to do with a bull? I don't remember how old I was, but I found this giant stuffed bull at the local five-and-dime-type store in the little town where my dad lived. And I wanted it. And I got it for my birthday. I am fairly sure Dad was incredibly confused about why I wanted a giant stuffed bull for my birthday, but he got it for me. So while my dad always compared me to a Shetland Pony, when I think of him and my childhood, I think of a bull.
So when RFFF suggested Ferdinand, it wasn't just a good idea, it was fucking perfect.
Today, twenty-fours years after sitting on my floor drinking cheap beer, talking about tattoos.... I got my tattoo. It represents the intertwining of two parts of my life and two people who were important to me and two people who are dead. Because of that, I added the initials of both my dad and Cori along with their birth and death years.
And, yes, it is fucking perfect.
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So.... did it hurt? Yes, but not in any way that I can really describe. It was more like an intense scratching. There were moments where it stung more than others. Honestly, ripping off the tape used to hold the bandage covering the tattoo hurt more then getting the tattoo. I've been told tattoos are addictive. I always figured when I got one it would be like opening up the flood gates and I would be covered with them in a few short years. I already told the tattoo artist--my tattoo artist--that I'm planning a full sleeve based on Where the Wild Things Are.
And the title of this post? It's what I think of whenever I think of getting a tattoo. Some college roommates (one of whom was The Tattooed One) went to see a comic on the college circuit. I don't remember his name, but we had seen his act on TV and we all loved him. During the show we sat in the front row, right in front of the guy. At one point he asked if anyone had any tattoos (yes) and later he asked if anyone had a cigarette (we all did). When we all shot our arms up in the air holding our smokes, he said, "Tattoos and cigarettes. The bikers always get the best seats."
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